One of the greatest fears for any child is turning into their mom or dad. The first moment one of their idiosyncrasies you mock them for comes bubbling out of you is terrifying — even more so than the reoccurring nightmare where you discover there is a math class you have been enrolled in all semester yet have failed to attend and there’s a final today. Please tell me I’m not the only one who still dreams this.
I have found out that there is something more frightening than turning into one of your parents: turning into both.
I accepted early on that I am turning into my mom. Despite my best efforts, it is unavoidable. Slowly starting with my penchant for necklaces and accessorizing, soon I’ll probably have the whole Chico’s jewelry line overflowing in my dresser drawers, know the exact location of every T.J. Maxx in a 50-mile radius of my house, lure small children to sit with me at church with my bag of toys and say “salmon” without the silent “L.”
This is my lot in life.
I draw the line at the neon capri pants she wears, though.
So, in preparing myself for life as my mom 2.0, becoming my dad caught me completely by surprise.
The shock came the other night when I got home from work. I was asking my husband how his day was, what was for dinner, what was in the mail, did he get a text from our friend, where’s Waldo, whose line is it anyway, does he like green eggs and ham, what is this, what was that … and then he stopped me mid-interrogation saying that talking to me was like talking to the Riddler.
You see, my sister and I relentlessly tease my dad about his constant question asking. We’ve decided that his brain can only process information if it is the result of a question he is asked.
We blame it on his occupation. As an optometrist, all he does is ask questions: “Which is better — one or two? Three or four? Can you read that top line?” and so on. Sure, he does other important stuff like fit and make glasses and diagnose problems, but the questions take first billing, at least in my mind.
I quickly attributed the rapid-fire question asking to my own occupation. As a writer for the Harding alumni magazine, I often interview people for magazine stories. I go into each interview with a list of questions mapped out like a choose-your-own-adventure novel. Whether the question is yes or no, I have a corresponding follow-up question. Even while they’re answering one of the 58 questions I’ve planned for them, my mind is constantly churning with more and more inquiries.
I comfort myself with the fact that maybe my dad’s characteristic will fill in the hole where my mom’s T.J. Maxx honing beacon was going to be placed, thus sparing me from knowing every salesperson there by name. I can take asking a high volume of questions if that is the case.
So, if you find yourself in a conversation with me and things start to get a little too much like the Spanish Inquisition, just pat me on the shoulder and tell me I am my father’s child. I’ll get the message.
