It’s happened.

I have officially turned into my mother.

The signs!?

• The “is she bigger than me?” game. This “game” plagued my childhood. The school car park,  family weddings, the weekly food shop…you name it. My mum would spot a lady, maybe the same size as her, perhaps a little larger (NEVER smaller!) and enquire as to whether or not she were bigger than my mum. It wasn’t a game in modest self deprecating or even an attempt to fish for compliments….she was just asking. Getting another perspective. BOY was it annoying. My sister and I would share glances of moral support and always told her no. (We weren’t stupid!) I vowed I would never play this game. I lied. I play this little game (in my head ofcourse) ALL the time. Is this normal?…do all women do this? Or just my mother…and now, rather embarrassingly…me.
• TO DO lists. Weekly shops. Mundane chores. Telephone calls I have to make. I WRITE EVERYTHING DOWN. My pads are filled with scrawny lists written in a hierarchy governed by urgency. I use capitals, bold letters, different colours, tone of language, time frames etc etc to convey importance and immediacy. I consider myself a little bit clever and something of a pro….except I’m not. I learnt it all from my mother. A woman who cannot function in the absence of a well thought out “To Do list.”  A woman whose memory is shot to pieces thanks to a reliance on lists and sub-lists and sub-sub-lists. A fate that shall no doubt become mine.
• Coffee. My childhood memories of my mother are permeated by a recollection of her misguided choice to have a perm, by her wide mouthed contagious laugh and by the unique smell of the combination of her Chanel perfume and the endless cups of coffee that she drinks. I swore that I’d never be a coffee drinker. Coffee breath? NO THANKS. Stained teeth? NO THANKS.  Needing caffeine? NO THANKS. But I succumbed. I am a coffee drinker. I’m with the best of them. BLACK in the morning. Whiter and more sugary as the day progresses. I’m a tired miserable grump when without coffee. I am turning into my mother.

Its a shock. One I thought I might reach on becoming a mother myself and when nearing my 40s. HELL NO. I’m there now. I dread to think how much I shall resemble my mummy dearest in a decade or two!

The solution? FOCUS on the traits I shall never pick up.

• Using talcum powder. WHY JUST WHY?
• REFUSING to develop a modern vocabulary. NO mother I did not go to a “disco” last night, I was at a nightclub. For the 1000th time, I didn’t take “O Levels” they were GCSEs.
• Treating the gossip learnt at the hairdressers as the gospel truth and sharing it with all and sundry thereafter.
• A love of Dairylea. OR any soft/spreadable cheese for that matter!!! It’s just wrong.

• Preaching about the old times. Old music. Old TV shows. The Old way of doing things.
• Using her crazy made up words…generally any word with the addition of “ie” on the end.
• NAGGING. Enough said.

Mum, I love you dearly. Whilst I thank my lucky stars that I got your eyes, your sense of humour and your intellect, trust me, there are MANY of your idiosyncrasies that I am glad I never inherited and that I am determined I shall never acquire!!