Mother, Mother

I am turning into my Mother. The speed at which was pretty alarming last week. The tiny pieces of her I try to shove off all collected, and I suddenly realized that most of them are not that bad.

The overwhelming urge to put on a robe over my pajamas one day last week didn't feel like a conscious decision, it's just what you do in the morning! Never mind the only time I wear a robe is when I'm sick or freezing to death. So I wore my silky, garage sale, kimono robe while I made breakfast, and I felt more like an adult that I had in ages.

GrapeNuts Pudding. It seems very innocent, right? I wanted to make it 2 nights ago. The making, though, had to be spontaneous, for whatever reason, or it didn't count. So although I had purposefully bought any ingredients I was missing at the store, I didn't make it until the timing felt right. I thought I was making it because it was yummy, and fun for the boys. Not so, I tell you! The real reason came to me mid-stir.

I made GrapeNuts pudding because when I was little, at random but important times, my Mom made vanilla pudding from scratch. A reminder that we were together as a family, and that the other stuff wasn't important. Winston starts pre-school on Monday; The Mr. starts his first year as a tenure track professor. These are important times, and my mind took over instinctually.

We can take this even further though. I don't make the vanilla pudding my mother did because, although it was yummy, is isn't yummy enough to replicate through this parenting cycle I'm in. GrapeNuts pudding is a Paula Deen recipe. That is the surface reason it's been chosen on so many occasions. But underneath is the memory of sitting at my Grandmother's counter eating sweetened GrapeNuts for breakfast. Breakfast at Grandmother's house is a whole post itself, but the secret here is that sometimes, I would heat my grapenuts in the microwave and make them warm and yummy. I'll let you guess what Paula Deen's pudding tastes likes.

When I speak to my boys, sometimes I have to clear my throat and try again. The voice that comes out doesn't belong to me. It's not scary anymore, just a strange comfort I never expected. My mom and I wear the same shoes. They are different colors, of course, but still the same.


In all the outwardly physical ways I look like my father's family. My hair and my eyes are the same as my Mom's though. These other things, whether learned or inherited, are a connection to her I never thought I'd have.

Thanks Mom. I'm NOT wearing fuzzy slippers though, you can't make me!