The Writing Workshop: Lucky Me

Is it the inevitable truth that slowly, ever so slowly, we all eventually evolve into our parents? Now, I'm not necessarily saying that this is a bad thing but it really is kind of spooky how it creeps up on you.
I think my transformation into my mum began a few years ago, when I bought my own home. One night I went to bed an average Hello-magazine-reading-twenty-four-year-old and by the morning I found myself drawn by an unexplainable force towards Homebase. By the time the evening had come I had subscribed to House and Garden magazine and had a lovely casserole stewing in the slow cooker.

Recently though I have found my mother's mannerism and traits forcing themselves upon me in abundance. These are the mannerisms that I have rolled my eyes at for most of my childhood. For example, the other day I set off on a journey in my car and found myself hanging my coat on the back of my chair, giving it a brush down with my hand and straightening out the collar 'so it doesn't get creased.' This is coming from a women who for the past twenty-nine years of her life has just chucked coats and cardigans onto the back seat and more or less used her car as a portable wardrobe.

Another thing that I've started to do is hunt for hand cream in my hand bag. I've noticed that whenever I go on a car journey, actually every time I go anywhere with my mum, she is always putting hand cream on. And this week I found myself saying, 'now where is that hand cream - my hands are getting awfully dry - anyone got any hand cream?'

Most mornings, just as I'm driving through the village to work, I get this panic spread through my body. 'Did I turn the iron/straighteners/oven off?' the doubt forces me to turn around, making myself even later for work, only to rush into the house to find that they were turned off anyway. I'm sure my mum used to ask this whenever we would go on a car journey.

My mum does this funny things of saying that certain people, or even sometimes animals, remind her of something or someone else. 'Oh look at the cow, doesn't he remind you of aunt Betty...' or something similar. I too have started to do this.

I fear that this is just a hint of what is about to come. Soon, I will no doubt find myself hoovering at midnight, taking five years to choose one piece of furniture for the lounge and keeping all my receipts and checking them off against the bank statement at the end of the month. Unfortunately the habits and mannerisms that I have inherited so far have been the less useful ones that my mum possesses. Why haven't I started to clean out the cupboards on a weekly basis like she does? Why can't I leave enough time in the morning for me to wash my hair and have a cup of tea like my mum does? Why can't I be bothered to iron all my bedding so my duvet covers looks lovely and crisp like my mums? Why am I too tight to get my hair nicely cut and coloured like my mum?

But the point is that no matter what qualities I inherit from my mum, the useful and the not so useful, I am lucky to have a wonderful mum like her.

This post was written as part of The Writing Workshop.