Sure Signs You're Becoming Your Mother- RE-POST

In honor of Mother's Day, we're reposting a blog from several years ago that reminded us (and plenty of you) that we're all not nearly as Far From the Tree as we think we are! Below are the first 40 of the 80 Signs You're Becoming Your Mother, we posted back in 2007!

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It’s Monday. It’s raining buckets here. We’ve dragged ourselves to the computer. Donna just went to the kitchen, fixed a cup of coffee, left it on the counter, went back to the desk and sat down. It took a few moments for her to figure out what was wrong with this picture. Yeah, Monday’s are a real mother. . .

And forgetting what you got up expressly to do—that’s something our mothers did, and we’d roll our eyes and think, “Dag, what’s wrong with her?” Except now it’s you, and you don’t know when that happened and you swear you just need a vacation. . . Do not stress. This is part of a natural evolution. The good news—It’s out of the closet, so we’re not losing our minds in silence. Forgetfulness, along with the sudden appearance of a soul patch and the disappearance of our waistlines, indicate that whether we have children or not, we are in the process of morphing into our mothers.

For those of you under thirty, this will be like trying to interpret ancient cave drawings. Interesting to look at, but totally meaningless in your world. Be patient—your day is coming. If you’re past the big three-o but not yet forty, you'll smirk and say "that will never happen to me!" Between forty and fifty more of these than you want to admit will apply. And beyond the half century mark, you will find great comfort and satisfaction in the realization that you're not the only one!

So when you wake up in the middle of the night, gasping for breath because you suddenly realize.... Aaaargh! I'm Becoming My Mother!!! Try to stay calm. Do not tear your hair out---it's probably thinning anyway.(Of course, now there's Rogaine.)

But this is not the end of the world (It happened to your own mother and her mother and her mother and...), just the beginning of a new era!

Here's a prayer to see you through.

...Grant me the serenity to accept the things I can't change (not that I haven't tried), the strength to run screaming from the things I can and the wisdom to keep laughing, because nobody likes a joyless old heifer.

And here are some signposts along the way. We started this list way back when we were writing Far From the Tree and just found it in the abyss that is the “Future Projects” file in our computer.

We’ll be posting more on what we’re calling Mother Mondays. Here goes:

1) What you want instead of a vodka shot is a nice cup of herb tea.

2) The "s" word you use to describe shoes is “sensible”, not “sexy”.

3) The furry food in your refrigerator really disgusts you.

4) You hear yourself say, "How can anybody dance to this?"

5) It's that special night, the one you've been planning for, but you wear galoshes a storm coat, muffler and hat with that slinky little black dress because, after all, it is snowing.

6) It's midnight on Saturday night and what you really want to do is go home to bed...to sleep.

7) Your knees announce that you're going to sit down.

8) The little girl you used to baby sit is on her second divorce.

9) You take that big slice of Bermuda onion off the burger because the indigestion it will cause won't be worth it.

10) Even the thought of brushing your teeth in cold water causes pain.

11) You change the sheets every week, on schedule.

12) You can't stand fingerprints and toothpaste spatters on the bathroom fixtures.

13) You actually look forward to family gatherings and remember that Uncle Joe's second wife Ida can only hear out of one ear.

14) Being regular isn't the opposite of being 'late', so the Correctol is in the medicine chest right there next to the Midol.

15) Fiber does not refer to linen or silk.

16) Small children call you "Ma'am".

17) Young adults call you "Ma'am".

18) The oldies station no longer plays music from the decade when you slow danced in the basement.

19) Kids don’t know there was an original version of that song.

20) You understand that Scotch tape is not an acceptable substitute for a needle and thread.

21) You're walking down the street, you see someone’s reflection in a store window and think, “Gee, she looks so much like my Mother.” You’re horrified to realize it’s you.

22) You look at a picture of yourself as a child and see your daughter.

23) You look at a baby picture of you with your mother and realize you look now like she did then.

24) Lingerie becomes underwear and it’s no longer optional—it has advanced engineering

25) Your flannel nightie is your favorite.

26) You keep bed socks in the same drawer as your pajamas because your feet are always cold at night.

27) You wear pants because they keep your knees warm (see # 7).

28) You carry paper towels in your pocketbook to mop up after “power surges.”

29) You buy extra-calcium everything.

30) Retro clothes don’t make you look hip. They make you look like you’re wearing your old clothes

31) You diligently write reminder notes—then forget where the hell you put them.

32) You hear yourself say, "My goodness!" instead of #$%&*! the way you used to.

33) You keep extra birthday cards on hand and actually mail them so they arrive on time.

34) You smile smugly when kids say, "What do you know?"

35) There's always something to eat in your refrigerator and you cooked it.

36) You can only eat cereal or toast after 10 PM if you plan to get any sleep.

37) The thought of cold pizza for breakfast is revolting.

38) You finally admit the photo isn’t blurry—your eyesight is, then give up and get the glasses (but they’ve got to be cute).

39) Your glasses hang from a chain around your neck because it’s the only way you can find them.

40) You remove the clothes from the dryer at the end of the cycle instead of using it like an extra dresser drawer.

This & That

It’s SO hard to focus. We’re trying to get ourselves up to speed on the new book—it’s simmering, and we need a rolling boil about now. But as usual, life in all it’s unpredictability, has a way of short circuiting the writing process.

Life has been quite a roller-coaster. We know—what else is new—for any of us?

There’s the personal stuff: Virginia’s mom, who right after her 85th birthday celebration had cataract surgery. Then she made a routine trip to the dentist who found a “suspicious lesion” on her tongue. The word “lesion” conjures up enough worry to feed all the fears you accumulate from gorging on episodes of ER, House, and Grey’s Anatomy. So many gruesome diseases to choose from! And even before the dentist said the next bad word, “biopsy”—you’re heading down the chute—it’s dark and scary and only bad things like cancer could possibly be at the end of that tunnel. Fortunately, in this case, that was not the case! Virginia noted on a status update several days ago, that her mom’s biopsy was negative! WooHoo! Turns out the “lesion” was the result of an ill-fitting partial dental plate which has now been corrected.

Whew.
Let’s get back to the new book.
Ooops! Not so fast.

Because just when we thought it was safe to go back in the water, Donna finds out her mom, who is still recovering from her car accident from last year, has to have---cataract surgery. And yes, it could be worse, we know that. And yes, an ophthalmologist recently said to Virginia that cataracts were a good thing—it meant the person had lived a long life and that everyone who lived long enough would get cataracts eventually. There’s nothing like the Asian perspective on aging to set you straight. Oh, and did we mention she also has to have a tooth extracted, and start the process of getting a dental implant? There’s more on the personal front, but you get the gist.

Then there’s the author stuff.

We got the news that we had received a great review in Publishers Weekly for What Doesn’t Kill You—(January ’09) Yippeeeeeeee! (We’ll post it later this week.) This of course made us very happy. Half hour later, we find out What Doesn’t Kill You will not have the cover we liked—no loved. Powers that be (too long a story for here) decided it wasn’t “quite right” and didn’t capture the spirit of the story, so it will have another cover altogether (We’ll post them both later this week too). Oh well. For those of you who ask if we get to decide our covers—this is your answer!

And there’s the election stuff.

As much as we would like not to be, we are consumed by this election. It’s ups, downs, twists and turns. Since we have been working together, there are just times when you have to stop and stare at the television, because what is happening is so extraordinary. Occasionally the situation is joyful, like watching Nelson Mandela walk out of prison after 27 years. Sometimes it’s surreal, like Clarence Thomas, Anita Hill and those pubic Coke hairs. Unfortunately, more often than not we are stopped by tragedy—watching SCUD missiles streak toward Bagdad during the first Gulf War, watching the aftermath of the Oklahoma City bombing, the first World Trade Center disaster, and the second. During this presidential election season, we have made our position and our candidate clear –we first stated it here a year ago. And what with the debates, the polls and the vice presidential follies there is news that invades our lives moment, by moment. We watch, read and talk. We call and email friends, family and strangers alike. We blog and repost articles. We remind EVERYONE we meet, EVERYWHERE we go to register to vote. Because it matters so very much. And because we will do whatever we can to keep “Caribou Barbie” from being one heartbeat away from the Oval Office and making America a more of a laughingstock to the world than we already are.

So, we do our best to focus, and ignore the 42 emails that come in with the latest political tidbits because we’ve got a book to write, a screenplay to review, other proposals we’re working on, movie money to raise, contracts to review. . .and did we mention the fiscal meltdown. The Dow is down 777 points today (too bad there’s no slot machine involved. Or is the stock market like one big craps table these days?) because the House rejected the economic bailout. Centuries old brokerage firms are DOA, people are losing their homes to foreclosure and what are there, like three banks left. . .

Aunt Eleanor's Party Pics

Mother Mondays Part 2: If the Genes Fit...

If you asked us for a physical description of our friend Keryl, we’d have started by saying she’s a Black woman. Black meaning straight up African-American—not from Jamaica or Ethiopia—from the Bronx, with Southern roots, you know, like the ones that came from the motherland to North America with Kunte Kinte, et al. Well, to our surprise, and hers, it turns out we’d be wrong.

Keryl had one of those genetics tests, you know, like Oprah had when she declared she was Zulu (turns out that upon further investigation she is really descended from the Kpelle people of Liberia, but that’s a whole ‘nother story). Now, for genetic reasons—something having to do with X’s, Y’s, alleles. . . science that clearly goes beyond our grasp of freshman biology (and maybe one day we’ll tell you about VdB’s XY theories) —women can only trace their lineage through their mothers. Men will get results from both their maternal and paternal sides. So here was Keryl, waiting to see if she was a Fulani princess (she was already sure about the princess part), or perhaps, Igbo, Ife, Dan. . . Except the results came back showing no African lineage!!! Zip. Nada. Zilch. Turns out Keryl’s ancestral mother traces her roots to Central or South American indigenous peoples—“What you be talkin’ about, Willis?”

She is still trying to wrap her mind around this identity busting bit of data. There is no Central or South American connection in her family --- that she knows about. Granted, families can be really secretive about who came from where and how folks hooked up in the first place. She’s planning to run this past her cousins and see if they have any insight.

But when you come down to it, what does this new information change? Is she no longer supposed to think of herself as an African-American woman, despite the fact she grew up and became a happily nappy, African dance performing, dashiki wearing brown-skinned woman, who has produced, directed and preserved theater that celebrates the Black experience in this country, and passed on the pride in the accomplishments of her people to her children? Which people? Does this new genetic information negate what she views as her cultural heritage?

No, but it sure points up the limits of biology to define who we are. Most of us who identify as African-American are never going to know the specifics of our genetic ancestry. Perhaps more than any humans on the planet, we are a combination of peoples from a vast variety of continents and cultures. We like to think it has enriched us, made us stronger. It doesn’t mean that the pursuit of our genealogy won’t turn up fascinating information about those who came before us, and encourage us to learn more about the specific peoples and regions that comprise the African in African-American. But, the limits of science remind us that not all of our answers will come from the distant past.

Meanwhile, Keryl is planning to invent her own personal mythology, taking into account this new piece of her identity. It involves being a Brazilian princess (‘cause the princess part stays), from a people who were separated from Africa in the great geological shift that cleaved South America from Africa (did we mention Keryl is very creative). Besides, Brazilians have great music, and dances. They eat okra, yams, beans and rice. . . Feijoada anyone?

Keryl’s mother is no longer around to share or ask about this new-found heritage, so there’s no telling what she would have to say. But Keryl did drop the bomb on her kids (all of whom are adults with kids of their own), who are as shocked as she is (We demand a recount). We hear tell that every now and then you have to surprise your children. It keeps you feeling young instead of dwelling on the fact that your birthday cake could not be lit outside in drought conditions because it would be a fire hazard.

And on that happy note, here are some more sure signs that you are becoming your mother.

16) Small children call you "Ma'am".
17) Young adults call you "Ma'am".
18) The oldies station no longer plays music from the decade when you slow danced in the basement.
19) Kids don’t know there was an original version of that song.
20) You understand that Scotch tape is not an acceptable substitute for a needle and thread.
21) You're walking down the street, you see someone’s reflection in a store window and think, “Gee, she looks so much like my Mother.” You’re horrified to realize it’s you.
22) You look at a picture of yourself as a child and see your daughter.
23) You look at a baby picture of you with your mother and realize you look now like she did then.
24) Lingerie becomes underwear and it’s no longer optional—it has advanced engineering
25) Your flannel nightie is your favorite.
26) You keep bed socks in the same drawer as your pajamas because your feet are always cold at night.
27) You wear pants because they keep your knees warm (see # 7).
28) You carry paper towels in your pocketbook to mop up after “power surges.”
29) You buy extra-calcium everything.
30) Retro clothes don’t make you look hip. They make you look like you’re wearing your old clothes.

Sure Signs You're Not as Far From the Tree as You'd Like to Think

It’s Monday. It’s raining buckets here. We’ve dragged ourselves to the computer. Donna just went to the kitchen, fixed a cup of coffee, left it on the counter, went back to the desk and sat down. It took a few moments for her to figure out what was wrong with this picture. Yeah, Monday’s are a real mother. . .

And forgetting what you got up expressly to do—that’s something our mothers did, and we’d roll our eyes and think, “Dag, what’s wrong with her?” Except now it’s you, and you don’t know when that happened and you swear you just need a vacation. . . Do not stress. This is part of a natural evolution. The good news—It’s out of the closet, so we’re not losing our minds in silence. Forgetfulness, along with the sudden appearance of a soul patch and the disappearance of our waistlines, indicate that whether we have children or not, we are in the process of morphing into our mothers.

For those of you under thirty, this will be like trying to interpret ancient cave drawings. Interesting to look at, but totally meaningless in your world. Be patient—your day is coming. If you’re past the big three-o but not yet forty, you'll smirk and say "that will never happen to me!" Between forty and fifty more of these than you want to admit will apply. And beyond the half century mark, you will find great comfort and satisfaction in the realization that you're not the only one!

So when you wake up in the middle of the night, gasping for breath because you suddenly realize.... Aaaargh! I'm Becoming My Mother!!! Try to stay calm. Do not tear your hair out---it's probably thinning anyway.(Of course, now there's Rogaine.)

But this is not the end of the world (It happened to your own mother and her mother and her mother and...), just the beginning of a new era!

Here's a prayer to see you through.

...Grant me the serenity to accept the things I can't change (not that I haven't tried), the strength to run screaming from the things I can and the wisdom to keep laughing, because nobody likes a joyless old heifer.

And here are some signposts along the way. We started this list way back when we were writing Far From the Tree and just found it in the abyss that is the “Future Projects” file in our computer.

We’ll be posting more on what we’re calling Mother Mondays. Here goes:

1) What you want instead of a vodka shot is a nice cup of herb tea.

2) The "s" word you use to describe shoes is “sensible”, not “sexy”.

3) The furry food in your refrigerator really disgusts you.

4) You hear yourself say, "How can anybody dance to this?"

5) It's that special night, the one you've been planning for, but you wear galoshes a storm coat, muffler and hat with that slinky little black dress because, after all, it is snowing.

6) It's midnight on Saturday night and what you really want to do is go home to bed...to sleep.

7) Your knees announce that you're going to sit down

8) The little girl you used to baby sit is on her second divorce.

9) You take that big slice of Bermuda onion off the burger because the indigestion it will cause won't be worth it.

10) Even the thought of brushing your teeth in cold water causes pain.

11) You change the sheets every week, on schedule.

12) You can't stand fingerprints and toothpaste spatters on the bathroom fixtures.

13) You actually look forward to family gatherings and remember that Uncle Joe's second wife Ida can only hear out of one ear.

14) Being regular isn't the opposite of being 'late', so the Correctol is in the medicine chest right there next to the Midol.

15) Fiber does not refer to linen or silk.

Tune in next Monday for more…

Mom's Home

From Donna—

Mom’s home. What a journey. The flying part went smoothly. I called to arrange for a wheel chair to meet us, and it was right on time—we were met at the curbside check-in by a really nice woman who was Mom’s designated pusher (no--not that kind!). Do you know that every time the airport wheelchairs pass security they have to go through the metal detector? The pusher too—shoes off, the whole nine. That could get old in a hurry, but I guess it goes with the gig.

We flew back first class, because with broken bones, a cane, etc., I didn’t want her to have to deal with cramped seating, or armrest hockey. I haven’t flown in those first few rows in quite a while. You know the ones where they’re already seated, sipping cranberry juice (it was too early for cocktails) and ignoring all the folks filing down the aisle trying not to trip over their wheelie bags and praying there’s still space in the overhead. It reminded me I could get used to it given half a chance.

Mom napped and flipped through the in-flight catalog—she had missed her daily mail delivery of dream books—Mom has a serious catalog jones. Guess it’s the little things that make life seem regular.

We actually touched down 15 minutes early. Woo Hoo! BUT—you know the drill. There was no gate available so we sat. Then we rolled and sat. Then we taxied somewhere that felt far enough away to be New Jersey) where the pilot could turn off the engine—not a good sign. Fifty minutes into our tour of the JFK runways we were met by the “people movers”—two big Transformer looking vehicles that took us to the terminal.

The good news—the east coast pusher met us just as scheduled. The bad news—the luggage took another hour and fifteen minutes. Oh, then there was the line to get out of the parking lot. The supposedly speedy EZPass lanes were so jammed, they started letting people go through the cash lanes, for a flat $6.00. What? You thought I was going to say for free? Get real. This is New York. You gotta pay. Welcome home.

In one way Mom was glad to be home, but in another it was hard—somehow it made the accident and all she had been through feel real. But we’re taking it one day at a time. We went to the hairdresser on Tuesday—‘cause I knew Mom wanted to get her head together before she did anything else. My mother didn’t wear an Afro even in the sixties, so she was not feeling her forced natural ‘do. With her fuzzy dome of salt and pepper, her Timex with the big face she could see, and the cane, she all of a sudden reminded me of my Grandmother. Mom has never looked like Nana to me, until now. It startled me. Then we went to her doctor on Thursday. There will be a lot of those visits in the months ahead—baby steps, but it’s progress. Home seemed a very long way away a few months ago.

You Never Know What a Day Will Bring

From Donna--

My mom has been heading west for a couple of weeks each Thanksgiving and Spring for 20+ years—to a dude ranch no less, channeling her inner cowgirl. For the last several years, since she retired, she has wintered there—November to May, renting a house and enjoying mild weather and good friends. Asthma and arthritis have made New York winters a problem for her, and I’m glad she found a place that makes her so happy. The rest of the year she lives with my husband and me in Brooklyn.

But the regular pace of her life and mine shifted on April 19th. I was in Filene’s Basement, flipping through the blouse rack, when my cell rang. It was her friend, Katie, telling me in a cracked voice that Mom had been in a terrible car accident—she was broadsided by a pickup truck going 65+mph. When I call up that moment I still get the feeling of floating in a hot, airless bubble. The store noise drained away and I couldn’t breathe, and I struggled to understand what Katie said to me, about the sound like an explosion that sent her running out to the road, about Mom’s car in the ditch and the med-evac helicopter. I strained to make sense of what didn’t make any. The notes I wrote during that call slant erratically across my notebook page in handwriting I would never recognize as mine. During my subway ride home I made mental lists of what I had to do to get myself out there ASAP—book a flight, rent a car, pack some clothes, call my husband and some friends—it kept me together, putting one foot in front of the next, with a purpose. It kept me focused on what I could do instead of what was out of my control.

And it was bad when I arrived the next day. This person whom I had known my whole life to be in her right mind, wasn’t. She recognized me—I could tell because a tear slipped down her face when I entered her ICU room, but there are five days she can’t remember at all, including the accident. Five days of her talking in slurred speech from some reality that wasn’t where the rest of us live, of her being sweetly agitated, pulling out her IV lines, of needing to be reassured that she was injured, not being imprisoned against her will. My heart ached when I came in her room one day and her hands were restrained with cloth cuffs secured to the bed. I’ll spare you the gory details, but she had significant injuries, including a brain bleed, 7 broken ribs and her sternum and an ankle that required plates and pins. After two weeks and some very scary moments—and some funny ones too, where my very reserved and proper mother became the life of the party and social secretary of her semi-private room—she was released to a rehab facility. And the next day she was back in ICU—she had thrown a blood clot to her lung.

For five weeks I left my NY life, and whatever I would have been doing, and tended to her. And I was grateful I could arrange my life so I could do it, without worrying about all that would remain undone until I returned or whether I’d have my job. I was grateful for my husband who held it together at home, for my friends who helped take care of things I would normally have done, and talked to me whenever I needed, and for Mom’s friends, who called regularly and did whatever they could to get both of us through this.

Once I got Mom securely in rehab again, and made sure she was doing well, I came home, with assurances from her friends that they could handle things for a while. And they did. A week and a half ago Mom graduated from rehab to a friend’s guest room, and now she’s finally ready to head home.

She called me Monday. She had received a package of papers I sent which need her attention. Throughout this ordeal I have dealt with wads of forms, insurance companies, the car rental company, health insurance, etc. I have a gallon sized Zip-Lock bag full of statements and reports. But there are a few things that do require her attention and her statement. She was upset after reading through some of the papers, and she said, “I’m glad no one else was hurt, but this would have been simpler if I didn’t make it.” I wanted to come through the phone and yell at her, but I managed to modulate my voice, and I said, “Sometimes life is not easy, but it’s always worth it.” I’m not being Annie, singing about the sun coming out tomorrow. Everybody has had pain, some of it unimaginable to me. There was a hospital aide who would clean Mom’s room. Even when she was assigned elsewhere, she would stop in to check on Mom. After a while, we found out she was from Sierra Leone—she made her way here after the massacre in her town. Her mother was killed, the house set on fire. She had to jump from a window with her little brother on her back—he didn’t make it—unimaginable to me. But now she is pregnant and looking forward to the birth of her child.

All the mistakes, mishaps and the outright pain, are worth the wonder and surprise still to come. I wouldn’t change the bad things that have happened in my life, because it might change the good ones. Mom has always worried about getting things right, about not being a problem. I have too. But I knew something had changed in me since the accident, and I’ve had trouble putting it into words. I still do. But I know it involves, letting loose, becoming keenly aware we all screw up sometimes, and that the world will go on even if the paperwork is a little slow. That sometimes we are all a colossal pain in the face to those who love us, but miraculously, thankfully, they keep loving. That there are people who can get on my final, break the glass, emergency nerve, like Mom sometimes, but I would do anything in this world to keep them safe and happy.

In the midst of it all I was, of course, grateful for the knowledgeable doctors, and most especially the nurses, who were unfailingly kind, gracious, generous, and genuinely concerned for Mom’s well-being, no matter how messy or what time of day or night. But I could also still smile at the roadrunner who darted across my path as I drove through the desert—and the coyote. Seriously—I wasn’t watching the Cartoon Channel. The seemingly endless purple and orange sunsets made me feel serene and truly blessed. And last night, I asked for and received a ride through the aisles of Home Depot on my husband’s lumber cart (maybe a story for another day—involving a carpenter, who is downstairs banging, even as I type, a door and a washing machine) which seemed supremely silly, but it made me giggle and it was just fun.

I’m flying to Arizona to bring Mom home tomorrow. Her return has been a long time coming. So whether your underwear is clean or dirty—and I know Mom’s was clean—you can get hit by a truck. You never know what a day will bring—life changes in unforeseeable seconds. Having that fact smack me up side the head has made it supremely clear to me that I can let go and live.