Tree, Meet Apple

December 14th, 2011

I’m behind on my Reverb Broads posts, so I plan to amend that as much as possible in the next couple of days. The one I’ve been wanting to do for a few days now is this one from Jessica:

How are you like your mother? And if you’re a mother, how is/are your kid(s) like you?

When I was a kid, I was sure that I was adopted (funny enough, my older brother and sister did not try to convince me otherwise) – I was the only one in the family with brown eyes, I had curly hair, and I didn’t look like anyone. When I got a little older and understood that my mom was adopted, I was sure I had a long-lost grandparent out there that looked exactly like me. And then I had my senior pictures taken, and the resemblance was undeniable (again, funny enough, I was able to find my mom’s senior picture but not mine – a more recent pic will have to make do):

Mom - Senior Pic

Mom - Senior Pic

Me - this summer

Me - this summer

Maybe you can’t see the resemblance from these two pictures, but it was a little freaky when we compared our pictures from age 18. There was no denying it then – I definitely wasn’t adopted.

As if that’s not enough proof, I remember making fun of my mom growing up because whenever anyone would try to take a picture of her, she’d make a face. My friend and favorite photographer, Joe, consistently tries to catch me when I’m not looking because I always, but always make some sort of stupid face at the camera.

I say things like “whatchamacallit” and wear turtlenecks with leather blazer-jackets. I like to look at things and convince myself not to buy them because I can make it myself…and then never actually make it. I listen more than I talk – at least in our family (I KNOW there’s people who would disagree with this statement elsewhere). I turn red when I’m embarrassed, when I’m hot, when I’m tired. I’m a complete smart ass. Oh shit – I’m not like my mother; I am my mother.

And then there’s my kid. Three days ago he asked me if something I said was a “metaform.” When I told him one day that it was not likely I’d be getting him a “fuon” (phone, for the non-child-spelling-literate) for Christmas, he told me that was fine, he’d just send his list to the North Pole. If I tell him he’s being a pain in the neck, he turns around and tells me, “No, you’re being a pain in the neck.” He obsessively arranges his toys, his lovies, his drawings. He loves to read. Need I share more to convince you that this is my child? I think not.

And though, at one point in my life, the last thing I wanted to be was my mom, I’m feeling pretty good about that. The other thing we share in common is an iron-hard backbone – despite the sometimes sensitive and mushy appearance of the cover (okay, I’m less sensitive and mushy now than I used to be, but you get the idea), when push comes to shove, you can’t knock us over without us bouncing back. When my mom got remarried, she kept her last name – one of the other things we have in common – despite the fact that her new husband wanted her to take his. Oh sure, she’d never admit it, but my mom actually has a bit of a feminist streak in her. I’d say that’s not too shabby of an act to follow.

  • Lanie

    great post!  And hooray for you for catching up, when I miss a prompt, well, it STAYS missed.

  • Jessica Banks

    That’s really awesome; thanks so much for writing n my prompt! When I was about 16, I was going through a box of old pictures in my grandma’s basement. I found one of me, standing with a surfboard, that I didn’t remember taking. When I flipped it over, I saw the date: 1966. It was my mom. That was the day I stopped rolling my eyes when people told me how much I looked like her. 🙂