I spent my youth promising I’d never be like her. And then, somewhere between raising boys and spoiling grandkids, her voice came out of my mouth. Except now? I’ve doubled down and taken it to a whole new level.
I can still see myself in the kitchen of our house in Orfordville in 1969 — barefoot, tan lin on my shoulders, arms crossed in pure teen girl defiance. Mom was in one of her moods, flinging out orders and warnings like confetti.
“Because I said so.”
“Money doesn’t grow on trees, Laura.”
“Close the damn door, you’re letting the flies in.”
I remember thinking — Nope. Not me. I’ll never sound like that. I’ll never nag or scold or say things just to hear myself talk. I will be nothing like her.
Fast-forward a few decades.
I’m standing in the hallway. One of my boys — probably Andy, but it could’ve been Adam — had tracked mud through the house again. I opened my mouth to yell and out came:
“Do I LOOK like your maid?”
But it wasn’t just the words. It was the tone. The sharp, matter-of-fact, world-weary tone I had memorized in childhood.
I froze. I had become her. And you know what? It didn’t stop there.
Since becoming a grandma, it’s gotten worse. Or better. Depending on how you look at it. Now I dish out “motherisms” like a diner waitress topping off your coffee:
“Wipe that look off your face.”
“Life isn’t fair, get used to it.”
“If you don’t want my opinion, don’t ask.”
The grandkids just blink at me like I’ve spoken a foreign language. And maybe I have — I’m fluent in sarcasm and common sense, both of which seem endangered these days.
But here’s the kicker — and I say this proudly: I didn’t just turn into my mother. I outdid her. She may have been strict, maybe even harsh, but I added a twist of wit, a spoonful of rebellion, and a whole lot more volume.
Where she would mutter her disapproval under her breath, I will gladly project it across a room, preferably during dinner.Where she held her tongue, I sharpened mine.
So yes, her voice lives in my head now. I hear it when I grumble about the the cost of groceries, when I warn someone not to sit so close to the TV, and when I remind everyone that I am not, in fact, a short-order cook.
But it’s my voice too. And I’ve earned every ounce of it.
To all the daughters out there still swearing it won’t happen to them — just wait. You’ll be brushing your hair one day, muttering about how “no one ever puts things back where they belong,”
And you’ll stop, stare at yourself in the mirror and whisper: “Oh crap. It’s happened. I’ve turned into my mother.”
And when it does? Don’t fight it. Put your hands on your hips, channel your inner queen of common sense, and go full mom-mode.
Just like I did.
Just like she did.
And if you do it right?
You might even out-mother your mother, too.
