{ONE LAST THING
}
definitely my mom’s influence that leads me to sing along full volume to the radio, much to my daughters’ chagrin. Still, there was a level of disappointment. Am I no more than my
genes? At times, I felt powerless against bad behaviors that clearly are a family curse. The need to know everything, I mean everything, before making a decision? That’s my dad in me. The compulsion to make the beds first thing in the morning, even before changing a crying baby? Blame my mom. And then a call came in March. “It’s cancer,” my dad told me with
no ounce of anger or fear. He didn’t want me to worry about him, and I didn’t. I knew that his information obsession would lead him to the best possible care and outcome. And I knew that his accepting attitude and tremendous faith would bring him peace. But then a call came the next year. “It’s back,” my dad said,
although it became clear it had never really gone anywhere. And so we watched as my large (in stature and personality) father slowly shrank from the continued treatments. But that tendency to stay upbeat never dissipated. And then a call came on a Tuesday morning in October. “He’s gone.” Now, when I catch myself interrupting someone in my eagerness to
share an insight, I don’t berate my dad for passing down the behavior. Instead, I miss him. I feel grateful to share a part of him, even if it’s a bit of a social faux pas. (And, yes, I’m working on it, just like he was.) And when I write run-on sentences and overuse parentheses (you know, like this?), I don’t chide his writing style for encumbering mine. Instead, I embrace it and hope that he would like to read it. One day, I’ll probably force my kids to museums and historical sites
PARENTS WRITTEN BY LAURA WARNER / ILLUSTRATION BY ROXANA ASAMI t
he first year of my marriage, I realized that I had become my mother. It wasn’t a good thing; the proclivity to use mushrooms and olives in every dish; the need to apologize for everything in advance; the (sorry, mom!) hyper
sensitivity. Despite my pledge as a teenager to right every parental wrong I had suffered as a child – and let me be clear there weren’t many – I found myself mimicking my parents in more than culinary tastes. I was using the same vernacular, the same hand motions, the same cleaning supplies. (You’d be surprised how much tension the sponge/washcloth debate has caused in my house.) Then came kids. The first time I uttered, “I’m doing this because I love you,” to my three- year-old, I gagged on the words. How many times had my dad directed that same phrase at me? How many times had I thought, “Um, no, if you loved me you would just let me do it”? And, yet, I said it because it was true—it really is love that motivates me to correct my children. It is most
and drone on and on about their significance. And when they give me a bored look and question my coolness, I’ll remind them that I made the same face to my parents many moons ago. And how I wish that instead of complaining, I would have thanked them. I wish I would have jumped up and hugged them and smelled them and remembered the moment better, because all too soon memories would be all I’d have left. They’ll still give me a bored face, because kids just don’t get it. Turning into your parents isn’t always a bad thing – sometimes it’s just what you need.
A call will come one day. On the other end will be a daughter, laughing as she tells me the latest “mom-ism” she uttered to her own children. And we’ll laugh, because it just happens. Like it or not, you become your parents.
And then I’ll know that she’ll be okay. Because even when I’m gone, part of me will still be here with her, olives, mushrooms and all.
eliza 81
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