So Much Alike

This week I came to the realization that my daughter is exactly like me. Subtract about 32 inches, lighten the hair, change the name, and you’ve got a little Cathy. Jason, my brother-in-law said to me this past week, “You know, Abby looks just like Matt but she acts just like Cathy.” I smiled. She is charming. She does have a smile that lights up a room. She does have the most infectious laugh. But she also is very demanding. She is quite bossy and likes things done HER way, thank-you-very-much. And not to mention that she can pitch the most Oscar-worthy fit if something doesn’t go quite like she wants it to. Hmmm. What did Jason mean exactly?

I know my brother would certainly agree with his assessment. Growing up, I was annoying. I admit it. Sure, Chris and I honestly were best buds during childhood—and still are, I’m proud to say—but I was the stereotypical “little sister.” I’d run off, screaming to Mom and Dad the instant Chris did something to me, even though it was 100% provoked. Sorry Chris. :) I know I was—and still am—a challenging person to live with. I certainly have my flaws. I like things done a certain way. I’ll admit it. The bed pillows go in a certain order. Toilet paper rolls are placed so the toilet paper goes over and not under. The flower on the guest bathroom towel should be placed out, not in. Yada yada yada. You get the picture. I don’t think I’m OCD, but as I type this, I feel like maybe I should look in the Yellow Pages for a therapist. Yikes.

The scary thing is, I’ve started to notice Abby is just like me in this regards. When she sits on her little potty, Mommy MUST sit next to her on the knee rest for the bath tub. “Mommy, Mommy,” she says to me, as she points to my assigned seat. Doors and drawers must be closed, the stair gate clicked into place, and all “yuckies” thrown away before she is content. “Mommy, Mommy,” she says, pointing to the pantry door that’s ajar. I close it. And she continues to play. She likes things tidy like her mama. Every time we pass the construction near our exit on 75, she points at the piles of dirt and bulldozers and says, “Eeeew, Mommy. Eeeew!” from the back seat. That’s right, honey. Something is out of place. You get that neurotic gene from your mother. So sorry dear.

She is also very emotional like her mother. I come by it naturally. I am overly emotional like my mom, yet I am super sarcastic and witty like my father. That can sometimes be a deadly combination. As I continue to type, I realize that Matt should win some award for having put up with me for the past 10 ½ years. Maybe I’ll wear some of that sexy lingerie I got for my bachelorette party years ago. Eh, who am I kidding? I’ll just stick to my gray pajamas. But a huge kudos to you, babe, if you’re reading this! Ha! :)

Yesterday, when I wouldn’t let Abby ride her Pooh Tricycle because she refused to buckle the safety harness, she pitched the fit of all fits. I’m talking ear-shattering, people. I think all of Brookside subdivision heard her. For a minute, I was afraid that the Air Duct Cleaning man two houses down was going to call the police in fear a little one-year-old was being abducted by a stark-raving lunatic woman. I felt for her. I really did. She loves Pooh. And she loves that tricycle. But she had to be safe. And that’s what my job as her mother is, right? To protect her, no matter how much she might dislike me for it? So, the tears flowed—forever, it seemed. She did not like her Mommy. It reminded me so much of a night with my mom about 12 years ago.

My friends and I were planning on going to the lake “just to hang out,” I told my mom from the parking lot of a gas station, as we fueled up before we hit the road. Right. Like anyone goes to the lake to hang out. Of course parents were going to be there, Mom. Lie number 2. My mom tells me I can’t go. She doesn’t think it’s “safe,” not a good idea. I hung up. I was mad. Fuming mad. Your mom won’t let you go? my friends asked. Oh, she’s so lame, I thought. A few minutes later, her car rolled into the lot. I thought I was going to die of embarrassment. Funny, looking back, I’m fairly certain none of my friends would have any recollection of the event, of my mom “ruining my life.”

When I got into the car , I slammed the door and began laying into her. On that car ride home, I’ll never forget what I said to her: I hate you. Yeah, I said that. And it pains me still to this day to even type that. I said that to my own mother. My mom. Bettye. For those of you who know her, you know that it’s humanly impossible to hate her. Even Satan would have something nice to say about my mom. As soon as I said those words, I regretted them. Mainly because I knew that I had lied for a third time. I didn’t hate my mom. I hated the fact that she was right. Ooooh, and no 16-year-old kid likes that. Tears streamed down her face the car ride home. I spouted off how my social life was over and how I never get to do anything fun. Yada, yada, yada. She just sat there in silence. When we got home, I ran to my room and slammed my door shut. I still remember that. I was fuming. I wanted to be with my friends. Not in my house, under my parents’ “stupid” rules.

But you know what? My mom did exactly what every mom should have done. Protect me. She knew it wasn’t smart for her 16-year-old daughter to go to the lake and party with her friends. Bad decisions would be made, and she knew it. She also knew that I wouldn't like her decision. And that's what I find incredible about my mom. She so easily could have complied like so many other parents, knowing in her head that she shouldn't let me go. But she didn't. The thing I respect about my mom—and I can say this now, now that I’m older and wiser—is that she didn’t turn a blind eye. She was cautious. In our family, we call her Cautious Bettye. Matt would certainly call me Cautious Cathy. I realize that having “Cautious Bettye” as a parent when you’re a teenager is not necessarily the best thing. But as a 28-year-old mom myself, I am so grateful to her for being the parent that she was. She really molded me into the woman—and mother—I am today. I mean, how could she not? Only a strong, devoted, loving mom can bear the brunt of her daughter's harsh, painful, stinging words and then turn around the next day and give her a hug and tell her she still loves her.

Work with me here, folks, but Abby not wanting to buckle her safety harness yesterday was a lot like me not wanting to heed my common sense. (Although do 16-year-olds have common sense anyway??) As much as it hurt Abby not to ride that trike, I wasn’t going to let her get hurt. Sure, many tears were shed. Snot bubbles were blown. Air was gasped. It was all overly dramatic. But the same can be said with that naïve, immature 16-year-old driving with her mom away from that gas station. I got over it. My mom and I talked, I apologized, and we forgave and forgot. And Abby got over it. We're back to being buds again. But as we all know, it doesn’t stop there. Oh boy, does it not stop there...

This morning, I turned away for 30 seconds to put on my tennis shoes, and when I turned around, Abby was standing—yes, standing—on our glass coffee table. Oh my goodness. Abby insists on hand-feeding Millie and Winnie, and she takes their bowl and drops pieces of Kibbles N Bits all over the house. Sometimes she even likes to sample their food for them. Oh my. Yesterday, she decided to see what a dime tasted like. Good grief. After her nap a couple of days ago, she emptied my entire box of tampons in the bathtub, climbed into the bathtub and proceeded to turn on the water, drenching herself. Did I mention that she somehow managed to take a picture on my cell phone yesterday? Oy.

But you know what else she did? She gave me the biggest hug this morning, put her head on my shoulder, and gave me love pats on my back as we walked down the stairs. She and I held hands and danced like fools to music in the living room. She says, “Hi Mommy” in the cutest way that it makes my heart melt. She giggles uncontrollably when I tickle her thighs. She has pretend phone conversations with her BFF Ellie and she makes these adorable faces as though she thinks she is actually talking to her. She talks non-stop about her grandparents. She is absolutely obsessed with the four of them. She truly has a heart of gold.

Will there be bumps and bruises? Oh yeah. Will she pitch more fits and make scenes worthy of Oscar gold? You betcha. Will she ever do something to disappoint me? Obviously. Will I turn a blind eye to her bad decisions? Absolutely not. And that’s what separates a parent from a good parent. Will I be there for her to help mold her in the best decision-making possible? Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Will I drive across town to pick her up at a gas station if I think she should come home? You got it. Although I might have to fight Matt for the car keys!

Jason was right. Abby sure does look like Matt when he was little. Sometimes it’s uncanny to me how similar they look. But when she smiles, her eyes look just like mine. And eyes can be telling. I see so much of me in those eyes, and for that, I am forever grateful. :)