First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Illustration by Nijah Smith
Recently, I read an article in a magazine about how we turn into our parents as we age. According to the article, the telltale signs are complaining about the weather, dressing for comfort instead of style, going to bed early, falling asleep while watching TV and cooking the same meals. Apparently, the average age for this to happen is 43.
I reflected on this new information for a while and thought, I am sure that this is not happening to me. Even though I am older than 43, I feel that I have done the exact opposite of my parents all my life.
They always lived in a large house with a ping-pong table in the basement and they held weekly tournaments with their neighbours. Whereas I live in a small condo with no ping-pong table as I prefer indoor tennis at the rec center. My Mom was an avid vegetable gardener, whereas I only plant flowers in the springtime in small pots. I don’t go on annual campervan trips, preferring hotels and spas, and I certainly don’t cook a roast beef dinner every Sunday night.
Also in my favour: I definitely do not moan about the weather or go to bed early.
The next day, my daughter came over for afternoon tea and I showed her the article and told her how it did not apply to me.
She looked at me askance. “Mom,” she said, as she put another piece of chocolate cake on my plate, “you are very much like your parents.”
“No thanks,” I said, “Too many calories.”
“Aha!” she cried. “Just like your Mom! Grandma was always counting calories!”
My mouth dropped. “Oh, that’s not fair,” I protested. “Everyone counts calories.”
“And you are serving tea in the same teacups your Mom used and stirring the tea with her silver spoons,” she pointed out. “I rest my case,” she added with a smirk.
After my daughter went home, I continued to ponder the article and think about other ways I might be turning into my parents.
I didn’t listen to Tony Bennett or Frank Sinatra like my Dad constantly did on his stereo system. But I must admit that I did enjoy listening to the crooning of Michael Bublé.
I walked into the bedroom and peered into my closet. Did I choose comfort over style? It’s true that I prefer elastic waistbands for my skirts and wear stretchy sports bras instead of pushup underwire bras. However, I still enjoy dressing up for parties and wearing high heels. So, I couldn’t be doing that badly in the fashion and style department.
I perused the article again. It stated that the vast majority of people have family members and friends who have also turned into their Mom and Dad. It seems like everybody is becoming mini versions of their parents. It’s unavoidable. I thought about some of my friends and whether they were showing any telltale signs. I recalled that one of my friends recently covered the rooms in her house with wallpaper that looked similar to the wallpaper in her parents’ house. And another friend has joined a quilting group and sews log cabin quilts, just like her mother. And I must not forget my sister who has recently purchased a ping-pong table and was inviting her neighbours over to play. I laughed. I was now starting to agree with the article.
It was also at this moment that I realized the resemblances that I may have with my parents are actually rather comforting. For example, I like hearing my cuckoo clock sing the hours just like my Mom’s clock did. I also like embroidered pillowcases, which were a mainstay in my parent’s bedroom. I like to cook the same split pea soup that my Mom made every Saturday morning and I have a large carpentry toolbox – just like Dad’s – for fixing things around my condo.
In the end, it felt good to embrace this comfort and wisdom. I guess I have unknowingly become a mini version of my parents, and now I must admit that I like it.
Jerri Carson lives in Victoria.
