Believe it or not, the above shopping list is not mine. Nor is it my husband’s.
I’m delighted to report that the items listed above are those of my not-quite-yet thirty-year-old son. Hahahahaha!
David admitted to purchasing the items while bemoaning the fact that he had, indeed, finally morphed into an old man, or more tellingly, his parents–something I’d told him was not only not far off, but inevitable.
It may be small-minded of me to gloat, but this kid, in particular, kind of deserves it. He was, um, a challenge growing up, something he’d readily admit to. And while I’m thrilled at the way he finally turned out, I’m also not above experiencing some small satisfaction when he has any moment at all that will allow me to say, “I told you so,” even if I say it quietly under my breath.
No one wants to think they’ll turn out to be their parents. I still bristle whenever my mother smirks and says, “You’re turning into your mother….” I think it actually makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Yet, I take perverse delight in saying it to my own daughters.
The truth is, they aren’t me, any more than I am my mother. Nor is David his father. But we do all share some common traits…and expressions and mannerisms…that link us together.
It’s maddening to them, and to me, when it’s about me and my mom, but maybe it’s also not such a bad thing. When you see your kids doing and saying things you do (provided we aren’t talking about a toddler who has learned from mommy how to say the word, “Sh*t!” when she drops something–not that that’s ever happened to me), it’s actually gratifying. Kind of a sign that maybe you didn’t completely screw them up after all. And when they admit that they’re voluntarily taking things off your plate of idiosyncrasies, well, that’s actually kind of cool.
So I’ll continue to deny that I’m becoming my mom, continue to irritate my daughters with a suggestion of the same, continue to snicker at my son’s metamorphosis–and be supremely grateful for it all.