On Mothers

I am turning into my mother.

I came to this realization as I was plucking my eyebrows in the vanity car mirror as I waited for Ab after school today.  You see, the only place that I can actually see to get those pesky stray hairs that make me resemble Bert from Sesame Street is in my magnified vanity mirror.  While this may seem strange to you, this was a completely normal activity to me until Ab hopped in the car and threw me an intense seven year old glare.  

"What are you doing, mom?" the utter horror she felt dripping from every word.  

Still not getting it, I answered, "Plucking my eyebrows, Ab.  Geez.  You've seen me do this hundreds of times."

"Mom, . . . people can SEE you!"

And, instantly, I knew.   I knew exactly how she felt because my mom had done it to me, hundreds of times over the years.  She was embarrassed about me.  I was the embarrassing mom!  I was my mother.

Now, mind you, I had yet to wear multi-colored converse sneakers to match my skirt in front of Ab's friends, nor did I  blow up the gas grill at her 7th grade boy-girl birthday party.  I had demonstrated no public displays of affection for her (or . . . gulp, for my husband), and I had yet to go out of the house with one of my armpits shaved twice and the other sprouting a veritable forest that peeked out from a summery tank.  Those were things that had mortified me about my mother.  My mental checklist assured me that I had done none of those things,  yet . . .

I had embarrassed her.  

Quickly, I had to do something, anything to rectify the situation.  

So, I grabbed her perfect little hand in mine, looked her deeply in her eyes, and said . . .

"Suck it up, Ab!  Your Grammy embarrassed me daily.  I expect I will do that to you too.  Get used to it."

And with a smile, I placed my favorite tweezers in their coveted car cup holder, and maneuvered my way out of the parking lot, while my daughter stared at me with an open mouthed gape.

I have decided to embrace my embarrassing ways.

My mother would be proud.