I'm turning into my mother

Love ya, mom 🌝

Jan 26

“I’m turning into my mother,” I say to my wife, stepping out the door and onto our back patio. With my protein shake, cup of water, and superfood juice balanced in my hands, I make my way to our bright-blue plastic patio chairs—careful to not trip over our dog, Annie, and our foster dog, Soup. My wife laughs.

We always joke about how my mom carries a ton of cups upstairs when she’s getting ready for bed. A mug of chamomile tea. A bit of brandy. A glass of water.

As I’m making my way through the litany of liquids I brought outside, my wife turns to me and smirks. “I could really go for a little sandwich,” she says, mimicking my mom’s voice. This time I laugh. Whenever my mom is hungry but not too hungry, that’s what she says. I could really go for a little sandwich.

I like making fun of my mom. I learned that from my mom. One of my favorite things about her is that she’s mean. Not cruel—but mean. If you were the youngest of ten, growing up in the 60’s, you’d also develop a bit of an edge. She’ll poke and prod and try to get under your skin—then feign ignorance when you call her out on it. “Why’d you hit the ball in the water?” she’ll ask my dad when they’re golfing. “Isn’t the fairway over to the left?”

I’ve started to eat like my mother. Oatmeal and raisins and nuts and dates. Cheese? This late in the afternoon? That’ll kill me.

My mom grew up poor in northeast L.A. Her and her siblings would fill up a trashcan with water and pretend it was a pool. “Remember when we’d fight over who got to swim in the trashcan?” my aunt asked my mom, laughing.

I think the sting of growing up poor has stayed with my mom, but only in some instances. She’ll reuse floss and refuse to get her car fixed, but now she’ll only drink expensive wine.

My mom is like an onion—she has a lot of layers and if you’re not careful, she’ll make you cry. I’d never shit a turd like you, she said, once, to my brother-in-law.

I still have no idea what she meant by that.

When I was younger and being an absolute dickhead, my mom threw a knife at me. “It wasn’t at you,” she insists, “it was by you.”

One of my favorite parts of visiting my parents is getting to their house super late, after my mom has gone upstairs to bed. She’ll hear us opening the door to the kitchen and come down to greet us. Hi honey, I’m glad you guys are here, she’ll say—tired, squinty-eyed, and half-asleep—in the white, fuzzy, sherpa vest she always wears.

When I’m drunk, I text my mom songs that I like. The National’s Weird Goodbyes. Amber Run’s Amen. Davis John Patton’s Alleluia. Dry the River’s Gethsemane.

“Love it,” she’ll say, usually the next morning. “Beautiful song.”

One time at a concert, my mom turned to me and said, “When I was younger, a guy I was dating wanted me to travel with him to the Amazon rainforest.” We were at the Hollywood Bowl, listening to Paul Simon. “I almost went,” she said.

I drink too much coffee, just like my mom. And I struggle to fall asleep, just like my mom.

“Are you happy?” I asked her, once, trying to set up a dumb joke. “Happy?” she replied, “No—I’m not happy. I’m joyful, but not happy.”

There’s a shame and a nervousness and a restlessness that I see in my mom. It’s the same shame and nervousness and restlessness that I see in myself. I suppose contrition can be genetic, I say—leaning back in my seat, my Armchair Psychologist certificate hanging on the wall behind me.

I think my mom relies on religion to calm her mind. I tend to rely on drugs and alcohol. I’ve just never felt like God could give me the same inner peace that alcohol and sleeping pills do.

I believe God has his plans and it’s up to me to trust, my mom texted me, recently. I don’t have that same trust or certainty, but I’m thankful my mom does.

“I’d never shit a turd like you,” my mom said, once, to my brother-in-law.

I’d never shit a turd like you.

I love you, mom. You’re a legend.

An absolute legend.

Some resources and links that have helped me

Missed my last Psychology Onions post? Read it here.

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