We All Turn Into Our Mothers, And I’m Okay With That

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I’m definitely turning into my mother. The more I realize this – the more I understand why her very existence scares the shit out of me sometimes. It’s like looking into a mirror of what I will surely become. I don’t want to be this sure about anything.

I got a glimpse that this transformation may be happening a couple years ago, when we got our first flat screen. Up until that point, we had an old Sony television that I bought somewhere around 1998. I’m not kidding. The thing still had a great picture and incredible sound. I didn’t want to get rid of it.

The TV was old and huge and my friends used to tease me shamelessly for still having it. We finally broke down and bought an upgrade, my husband installed it, and the old Sony was left in the corner of the living room until we could muster the energy to put it on the sidewalk in front of our brownstone for any takers. I kept looking at the old thing – I actually couldn’t sleep the night we unplugged it. I got up and went into the living room, turned on the new TV and thought – this picture is too clear. This sound is terrible. I looked longingly at my old workhorse. I was really bothered by it. I didn’t want to let it go.

Sitting there in the dark in our livingroom, staring at a crappy old TV I had somehow become in love with – I remembered the last big move my mom made, from her home of 30 years in California to her new place in Florida. Remember when electronics were also furniture? It was a fad that didn’t last too long, but one that my family jumped on because who doesn’t need a television encased in wood, on a swivel, that takes up about four square feet of your home? My mother loved that TV. It was a Panasonic. It sat five inches from the ground on a giant wood swivel base and took up about 2O percent of our living room. It probably weighed about 300 pounds. We convinced her she needed to part with it before the move. She still talks about that TV. I’m convinced she will never forgive us for talking her into leaving it behind.

Then there was the microwave she won in a bowling tournament the night before I was born. You read that right. My mother was bowling the night before she gave birth to me in 1973, and she won a microwave. I’m pretty sure it was one of the first microwaves in existence. It dimmed the lights in our house when we turned it on. It took up almost one whole counter in our kitchen – and I’m pretty sure it’s the reason for my bout with infertility. We couldn’t get her to let that thing go until 1995. I wish I was kidding. I tirelessly made fun of her for that, but I should tell you a little bit about my last computer. It was an almost eight-year-old Mac. An eight-year-old Mac and a twenty-year-old microwave have a lot in common. Theoretically. This affinity for not letting go of worn out major appliances/ electronics is clearly in my genetics.

I haven’t started reusing paper towels yet, or saving used Ziploc bags – but I’m sure that’s on the horizon. I used to make fun of my mother for wearing the same pink lipstick for the past 30 years, but then I realized I’ve been wearing the same shade of Mac lipstick for over a decade and that relatively, it’s the same thing.

The more I transform into my mother – the more I’m learning about her and myself. Of course a new flat screen is better in every way than an old television. As is a new microwave, an up-to-date computer and a shade of lipstick that changes with the season and the styles. But what I’ve learned is – it’s not the thing itself that is hard to let go of; it’s its quiet, unwavering presence in your life. That microwave saw my mother through the early life of her family. That TV saw me through some of the best years of my life. That shade of lipstick looked fantastic on my 25 year-old-face. Memories are attached to all of these things that were around when you were younger and “better” in every way. Who wants to give that up?

It’s not just getting rid of an old TV; it’s closing the chapter on a piece of your life. And as I get older and make memories with my own children – I finally understand why my mother so relentlessly holds on to things – and why my children will surely make fun of me for doing the same thing.

(photo: Elzbieta Sekowska/ Shutterstock)

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