Like Mother, Like Daughter

The older I get, the more like my mother I become … for better, or worse.

A few years back, I wrote an article about how I’ve always been the perfect genetic mix of my parents — physically, emotionally, and intellectually. In that same piece (which you can re-read here), I joked about four ways adult me was turning more into my mother. [I also wrote about four ways adult me was turning into my father, but that’s not important for this post. Sorry, Dad.]

With the exception of the hearing loss (which is still a problem), it was all pretty innocent stuff, really. Like finding myself browsing Home Goods as a way to pass time (I rarely leave my house these days, so this doesn’t apply anymore), obsessing over kitchen gadgets (I still do this), and having too many magazine subscriptions (thanks to digital content, this is no longer an issue — pun intended).

But while some of these have resolved themselves, I’m sad to report that my evolution into becoming Grace Dewey has only gotten worse.

Let’s start with bedtime.

I used to make fun of my mother for going to bed at 9:30. Now I get it.

If I don’t get 8 full hours of sleep, I’m not a very nice person the next day (same is true if I don’t get a workout in, fyi). I wake up at 6, so that means I have to be asleep by 10, which means I need to start my nighttime routine (face washing and moisturizing followed by mediation and breath work) at 9:30. While my mother doesn’t engage in such frivolity — she just wipes the makeup off her face and lies down — my process requires time. It’s how I slow my anxious mind so I can actually sleep.

My cell phone is set to shut down at precisely 9:30, so don’t text or call. And if you send me a funny meme or a TikTok (which I love to receive, btw), know that I won’t be responding until the next morning. Probably at 6, just like my mom.

Speaking of early mornings …

Like my mother, I’m up early every morning. Not quite as early as Gracie Sue, but early enough that I have the house to myself each morning. Just the way I (and she) like(s) it.

We both have morning routines, too. While she’s more of a drink-coffee-and-read-the-actual-printed-newspaper-and-watch-morning-shows kind of person, I’m more of a chug-a-glass-of-water-and-workout kind of girl. Different, but the same. It’s all about the routine … and don’t f*ck with our routines because we’re not nice when you do.

Repetition is king, and not just with routines.

So repetition in relation to routines is good, but in storytelling … not so much. At nearly 80, my mother’s memory isn’t as sharp as it used to be. She’ll tell me 3 times in one week what she and her friend Sue had for lunch last week, but forget to tell me that she was run over by a car in the Home Goods parking lot! #truestory. Unfortunately for my husband and sons, I’m starting to do this, too. Not quite as bad as her, but I have been known to walk into a room and forget why I’m there, or repeat a story more than once, seriously not remembering having told it before. [Side note: This repetitious storytelling serves me well when my husband swears I didn’t tell him something and I’m sure I did — because I probably told him more than once.]

Then there’s the technology part.

My mother is the worst. Scratch that — my father is the worst, but she’s only marginally better. I won’t relive our pandemic Zoom Easter experience, but suffice it to say, we watched the top of her head for nearly an hour and she couldn’t hear anybody.

She does try to learn, I’ll give her that, but she’s frustrating to teach. I’m too impatient, so I pass her off to my husband, brother-in-law, or one of her five grandsons when she asks for help. It’s shameful, I know, but karma settled the score … I’m that person to my own kids now when I want to know how to create a video or use a new app. And don’t get me started when my desktop crashes or I have to learn how to set up apps on my new laptop. Let’s just say, my husband is a saint and probably wishes he didn’t work from home so much now. [Love you, S.]

My mom’s a good sport, though. She knows I’m (mostly) kidding when I blame her for my shortcomings. The truth is, she’s one of the most generous people I know (along with my father), and I’d be lucky to be more like her — in most ways, at least. Not all. Let’s be real 🙂

-LJDT