A product of my environment

Mirror, mirror on the wall, I am my mother after all….. gift from the Queen a few years back…

When I first told Billy I was walking away from the Hotel Industry and moving home, he gave us 2 weeks.  Well, 11 years later I am still here. (For quite a while the only time Mom and I argued was when he came home… hmmmm, chew on that). Granted, this is not exactly how I had planned my life, but I’ll take it. 

                I was 6 weeks old when my parents “got” me.  To hear Aunt Sue repeat the story—something she has done on almost every birthday—my dad (in his deep, deep voice) was running up the stairs to Grandma’s yelling “it’s a girl, it’s a girl!”  They yelled back “the dog or the baby?” (Jenny, the basset hound did not last long—she bit the milkman when he came to see me). He yelled “Both!” And so on Mom’s 26^th birthday, the mother-daughter relationship began.  (I like to say I was her best birthday present but then Muffin, the original pug, came along and while she talked back, she was much easier to discipline).   I have always known I was adopted, never really mattered to me.  I loved to go back at kids who would say something… I told them their parents were stuck with them, I was chosen. (and yes, I more than likely ended it by sticking my tongue out).  My baby book is for adopted kids too… has this neat section that says when I first saw you… Dad started his out “my darling Liza”; Mom used “Dear Elizabeth”.  Great… the proper first name within hours; I was doomed.

                 I had a typical childhood until age 10.  Typical in that we played with our friends, we had meals together, we went to the beach, we went to church, participated in sports, family trips, you get the idea.  Then Dad got sick and things changed.  The thing is, while things changed, Mom did her best to make it stay the same for us and she did a wonderful job of it.  We had a high school babysitter, Sue, who was there when we got home from school, I know we had dinner made and either Sue or Mom ate with us.  We had a church family who was always there and our friends families, and those parents watched over us as we.  The point is this—yes, Dad died young and yes it is what sad not to grow up with a father, but we had Mom, who shaped and molded us into what we have become today. 

                Of course it was not easy; especially with me. She said black, I said white. She said yes, I said no.  She reached for the wooden spoon—I ran.  (to this day I give her one for memories sake in her stocking most years).  The funny thing was, later she told me she never really worried about me as I was basically a chicken (wish I had known that earlier).  People would always tell her “your daughter is so sweet”—Mom would quickly say “live with her”.   However, the older we both got, the more the mother/daughter relationship grew. 

                The Queen nickname started when I was in college.  She sent me a birthday card that said “Happy Birthday to my daughter the Princess, from your mother the Queen.”  Not to be outdone and since her birthday was 2 months later, I sent “Happy Birthday to Mom, Queen for the day from your daughter, Princess for life.” And so it began.  It has been at least 25 years and I am sure both of us has wasted much time, effort and not to mention money to keep it up.   However, it has been the time since I moved back home in which I have learned as well as appreciated Mom that much more.

                When I first moved back, I missed my “stuff”.  I missed my own place; I missed the routines I had created for myself living in my world.  When I came back, Mom was still working and she was up at 5am, an ungodly hour to someone who did not go to bed until after 1am or so… after all, I was on call 24/7 and usually worked late and usually went out after that.  It took me a while to adjust.  (okay—it took the addition of the downstairs bedroom for me to adjust).  I still led my own life, but now I also had to check in—not that she asked me to, but it was common courtesy.  (besides, she has this way of making me feel guilty—don’t believe me—ask Billy). I finally accepted it for what it was and to enjoy it. After all, I never ran out of toilet paper, I always had laundry detergent and there was always food in the fridge.  For a mere rental fee.  And, if I had to fix the computer, I was set for a few months.  

                I also started paying more attention.  Mom was and is very active in the church as well as a respected Elder.  Tim used to ask me where my sweet mama was – (freaked me out as sweet was not the word I would have chosen).   I also began to see the kind and considerate person she was.  When someone was sick, she brought food, called and made a point of checking on them.  When Charles got sick, she became his caregiver and was there his entire illness.  And I got to see that.

                So, when everything started to happen with me and Billy made that famous comment and said I was out of turn it should have been Mom, I had totally disagreed with him.  Mom’s role, talent I would say, is caregiver.  Granted, I am sure she thought she was done with me and this is not what she wanted for me, but she did it with Grandma Loomis, Dad and Charles and did it well.  I could not have nor could I do what she is going to have to do the next 6 or so months.  Yes, she has said she wishes she was the one (I told her it would not work as she was too old—yup—definitely got the eye rolling from her) but I then tell her she wasn’t the one so deal with it. (can you imagine if I said—yeah, sure wish it was you too… whoa… hello wooden spoon!).  

                Yes, I am, as the title says, a product of my environment.  I was placed into this family, with its ups, downs, lefts and rights for a reason (as was Billy).  Years ago Billy gave me a birthday card that said “Happy Birthday Mom, I mean Sis” and while we got a good laugh out of it, today I don’t mind it at all. Not one bit.