Let me paint you a picture: I am mid-20s heterosexual white male born and raised in upper-middle class suburbia who grew up to attend a moderately challenging state school — you know the type. To put it simply, there are millions of guys like me, and you’ve probably had some form of interaction with us with varying results. My reason for mentioning all of this is to give you an idea of where I’m coming from. It’s important to understand my roots so as to emphasize my shock when I recently came to the conclusion that I am slowly, but surely, turning into my mother.
Now, the whole “Oh my God, I’m becoming my mother” debacle is usually reserved for women who naturally have more things in common with mothers. You know, like a uterus. I’ve always looked to my father as what to expect from adulthood, so as you can imagine, this threw me for a loop.
Big changes in life don’t happen overnight. They are slowly chipped away or sculpted over time leading to a tipping point of realization. No one wakes up, checks the mirror, and instantly has body reminiscent of their father. It’s acquired over a series of uncountable IPAs and Bacon-Egg-’N-Cheeses. This transition isn’t any different.
My point of realization happened a couple of weekends ago while trying to pick up a girl at a bar. Some time after explaining my excitement for my recent vegetable garden haul and meeting my new baby nephew, she said to me one of my more hilarious turn downs I’ve ever endured, “You sound like my mother.”
What she said made complete sense. Fretting over a garden and visiting babies are typical mom things. Since then, I’ve started to piece together a common pattern of mom-like qualities I’ve recently picked up. Yeah, my garden is awesome. I mean, try thinking otherwise with a belly full of juleps and guac compliments of fresh tomatoes and mint. I’m really looking forward to hosting this weekend, in which I’ll be tearing it up in the kitchen, feasting with good friends, and riding a wine drunk into the evening. And I fuckin’ love kids. Our sense of humors are on par. Farts and diarrhea are the funniest things ever, full stop.
My initial reaction was probably along the lines of every 20-something female going through this situation: “Fuuuuuuuck.” But the more I’ve thought about it, the more unsure I am about the whole thing. I’m starting to realize there are perks to this momorphosis that are starting to outweigh the initial negative implications.
I love to cook. Someone once said “A way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” but that’s arguably more applicable to women (ever see a pack of girls take down Dominos after the bars?). This can be a great finisher when things are going well with a female of interest. Have her over for a home cooked meal, something light and healthy (salmon, grilled veggies, and white wine are lethal) and while you are at the store, pick up a baguette because french toast for two the next morning is happening.
Moms love me. Most importantly, girlfriend’s moms love me. Chatting, thank you cards, phone calls, I eat it up and moms never forget. Do not underestimate the importance of being in the good graces of a mother because after a fall out with the girlfriend, you can bet mom will be on the horn within the hour, and having her the tiniest bit in your corner can do wonders.
So, I’ve started to use this to my advantage with the idea that what works for mom might work for me (we do share half a genome, after all). I copied my moms shampoo and conditioner regimen and my flow has never been more on point. My mornings used to be a lethargic blur of k-cups, snooze buttons, and Chobani. So I looked to mom, she’s had 50+ years of honing a routine for efficient mornings, and lets not just shrug that off. Wake up, exercise, breakfast, coffee. Instant results. My mornings aren’t a slog anymore, and all my coworkers hate me for making them look bad in the 9:15 meetings.
So for now, I’m going to embrace this momorphosis. Sure, I’ll keep an eye out for any red flags like if I catch myself making a Pinterest account or if Amazon starts suggesting yarn. Until then, I’m going to enjoy my sauvignon blanc, dish some family gossip, and worry about whether my brother is eating enough. .
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