Resistance is Futile

My parents celebrated their fifty-third anniversary last summer. They married after knowing each other only 10 days in Tupelo, Mississippi.

Mom was a waitress in Murray, Kentucky when she waited on my dad in 1956. Ten days later, my mother wore a blue print dress much like the one Sissy Spacek wore in her wedding scene in the movie Coal Miner's Daughter.

Reflecting on how long my parents stuck together, I discover how much I'm like them. After all, resistance is futile as the Borg says. Here are signs I've morphed a little into my mom:

*I limp softly and carry a big purse. My mom had knee surgeries, I had back surgeries, so we limp and lean on shopping carts. I also donated all my little purses to my daughters' dress-up trunk in favor of a huge purse so I can carry - get this - yarn and crochet hooks.

*I sneeze loudly. I jumped out of my pants each time my mom sneezed when I was little. Now when I sneeze, my girls yell, "BLESS YOU!"

*When I need a stress release, I indulge in retail therapy at Wal-Mart. Maybe it's the bright lights and brand new yellow asterisks. Plus I never have to dress up to go there. When I look around, everyone else has a "come as you are" look about them too. There are more pajamas on Wal-Mart shoppers than a pre-teen slumber party.

*I confuse my family members' names. I call my husband Honey, which sometimes comes out Holly. When I call Holly, I say April, and poor April gets the dog Fluffy.

And here are signs I've morphed a little into my dad:

*I look forward to a nap every day. You'd think my favorite time of the day would be reading, journaling, drawing or yarn work, but nope, it's that little bit of snooze time.

*While relaxing, I refuse to sit in nothing but my favorite easy chair, even though it's old and torn (like Frasier's dad's chair).

*I listen to blue grass music. I may not have been born a hick, but it's in my blood.

Stay-At-Home Mom Schoolin'

I've been a mom for almost 11 years. I count pregnancy because the moment I found out, I thought of nothing else.

If you Google the word "saint" my mom's picture pops up. My only regret: waiting until becoming a mother before I appreciated mine. This is what I learned since having kids. I call it my Stay-At-Home Mom Schoolin':

*You woe the day your daughter finds something wrong with her looks. Just when you, as a woman, stop obsessing about your appearance, she starts. Holly wishes to be as cute as her little sister. I said if she was any more cute she'd combust from spontaneous cuteness.

*The less words you use, the more they listen.

*They stop whatever they are doing, no matter what, to watch the Simpsons with you even if they don't understand all the jokes. Then you have to turn it off when Bart says, "Go to hell!" or "You suck!" Because they sure as hell don't hear that language from me. That would seriously suck.

*If your child is born with birth defects you never stop blaming yourself even if they're not your fault.

*Because of these defects, if they have a crappy first year of life, you spend a lifetime making it up.

*Never speak figuratively to a child. Like if you say, "I'm in so much pain I'm gonna die," they think you will.

*Any joke, bad or good, about any bodily function is HILARIOUS. And they laugh for hours.

Best.Note.From.Mom.Ever.

Today we got a card from Mom. She kinda sorta forgot my daughter's tenth birthday. She more than made up for it by sending a check for Holly to buy a Webkinz.

I can totally understand the forgetting part. Just the other day a friend e-mailed me the story of Lucy from the song "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" passing away. I e-mailed her back and said, "I remember reading about her a while ago. Did you send me the article?" She wrote back, "Oh dear, you've forgotten already. YOU sent me the article." To which I replied, "Epic Alzheimers FAIL."

Mom keeps her sense of humor about memory as she writes in her best note ever:

Sorry I forgot :( to put this check in Holly's card. I'm so
forgetful. At least I haven't stuffed your dad in the clothes dryer
yet.

Momness is Terminal

"Once you're infected with the Momness disease, there is no cure."

That's what my daughter said as we folded towels. Momness, a disease sweeping the globe since Eve laid eyes on Adam.

Back then, moms had spic-n-span homes because we knew all the kids in the neighborhood. We rode bikes and skateboards. We walked to the neighborhood candy store with a friend down a busy road and walked back and ate our candy outside while our moms mopped the floors.

Now, moms do everything with their kids. We take them to the pool, the park and the megastore because there are no neighborhood candy stores anymore. We're lucky if we even know our neighbors. If they have kids the same age playing outside, which is rare, we feel like we're intruding on their quality family time since the parents are right out there with them.

So our houses aren't as clean as our moms' abodes because our kids don't get outside. We can't zone in and focus on what needs to be done that day. The floor goes without mopping and the furniture goes without dusting.

Public schools are not up to par, so we choose charter schools or homeschooling so we take responsiblity for our kids' education in addition to supervising them at all times.

TV ads tell us to be petrified of intruders bursting into our homes in the middle of the day if we don't have a security system. So our doors are never open. Our kids stay inside and play video games while we finish our tasks, and even then we can't allow them too much of that lest they roll down Obese Lane.

As weird as this may seem, I wouldn't have it either way. As Billy Joel sang, "The good ol' days weren't all that good and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems." I know where my kids are, what they're studying and how precious are those rare moments! Stuff like reading a book with them in the middle of the day or watching an age-appropriate news program and discussing what we've seen.

Momness, there really is no cure.