I am My Mother

The older I get, the more like my mother I become. That is not a bad thing, by any means, but there was a time when I tried to be my own individual, trying my best to take no characteristics from my parents. I don’t know why, except it was my little bit of rebellion that I owned. They were great parents; I always knew that I was loved, and cared for. No matter their struggles in the adult world, they always put us first. Always.

Yesterday I was making my smoothie and I decided to add a little bit of honey. I don’t know why, but I thought it would “spice” it up a bit. I hate sticky stuff, probably as much as Mom did. In fact, she would not touch the syrup bottles because “the twins’ made sure to get that shit all over the sides of it. She hated syrup for that reason. It was sticky, and it could not be handled without getting “sticky” all over you. She also hated that Dad absolutely loved honey. He wasn’t a messy person, but he like his honey and there was always a little bit left on the sides. That bothered no one, except Mom. It would eventually drip down and get the cabinet shelves sticky. Mom was not an argumentative person, at all, but there was no question about her disdain for sticky. In turn I took a hate for honey, syrup and anything sticky. I totally understand what her hangup was about, and I support it! As a kid, I thought it was amusing and funny. As an adult, I am my mother. Let me take you back to my yesterday and the smoothie with a bit of honey added. We have a bottle of local honey that is so thick that it takes 5 minutes to drip, so I have it stored upside down. It seemed smart at the time. During the making of my smoothie that smart plan turned into one of the dumbest executions of bad judgement that I have had in awhile. It was quick to drip, but that drip turned into one big, long strand of very thick, sticky honey. It would not stop. I slowly, and gradually, tipped the bottle right side up and in doing so the honey continued to flow into a long, 2″ thick strand of silly string, all over the outside of my cup, all over the counter and, of course, on the outside of the honey bottle. And, guess who was watching me, with slight amusement, as she sat, waiting for her treat because she was at the boundary line to the kitchen? Abby the golden, with that beautiful face that showed me that I failed at my execution of keeping the sticky inside the smoothie. The rest of that honey bottle is in the trash. It was so sticky that there was no fixing that. Now, Mom, she was not one to waste anything, and I do admire that, but she knows not what I do today, so I will be fine knowing that I don’t have fucking sticky on the cabinet shelf.

I am also my father. I love honey.