Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Like my mom
I often find myself sounding exactly like my mom. I use a lot of her recipes and feel the same way about camping and pets and Jane Austen and chocolate and watching the sunset from the front porch as she does. I channel my mom when I square off against sassy children. Recently when the drama department at Braeden's school was considering an inappropriate play for next year, I took a deep breath, considered how my mom would respond in my same situation, and dove in.
I called my mom a lot for encouragement and support.
In nearly every way, I want to be like my mom. (There are a few exceptions. For example, the woman doesn't own a pair of jeans.)
I deep clean my house just like my mom did every year. Except our house was log when we were growing up and my mom made us scrub the walls and ceiling. The smell of wet wood still makes me feel a little sick. I hated it.
To reach the ceiling, my mom and sisters and I each had a kitchen chair to stand on.
Then my brothers got to heights that surpassed normal heights. My mom enlisted their help. They cleaned the ceilings flat footed and my mom felt like she'd won the lottery.
I scrubbed the outsides of my kitchen cabinets. I called in my son with the long arms and legs to take everything off the tops of the cupboards and to get up there and clean it all. It was easier for him than me.
What can I say? I learned from the best.