Despite our greatest efforts we all inadvertently inherit a smattering of things from our mothers. Some time around my 17th birthday, I inherited my mother's girth. In my mid-20s she bequeathed to me, by way of the oh so glorious Williams-family genetic matrix, chin hairs. When I was little, I wondered why she had the same style of shoe in a variety of colors; can you guess who's stockpiling their wish list full of 2" canvas espadrilles now?
Some of these inheritances are gifts: naturally arched eyebrows, towel folding skills, a singing voice, hugging capacity, the ability to shut down a conversation with an "mmmhm." Yet as I get older I can't help but become neurotically aware of how all the things I used to chide her about are becoming my things.
Smack in the center of my mother's neck is a mole. As children, my sister and I began referring to it as "the button" shortly after we figured out what "pushin' my button" meant. During church, in between my under-the-pew worming sessions, I'd pop up behind her ready for another peppermint. Like a drive-through banker, I'd push the "call button" and send my cupped hand over her shoulder. She would then deposit the unwrapped peppermint into my hand and my crawling would commence. The button was also good during hugs; pressing it informed Mags to squeeze me harder. However, the button was not helpful in the car. Pushing it in conjunction with asking, "Mama, where we goin'?" resulted in Doberman-style bark-speak of the word, "CRAZY!"
I hated going crazy with Mags, because it almost always meant we'd arrive at some place where "And don'tchu touch nothin' either!" could easily be enforced with a swat. The button-mole was only safe to deploy in places where there were witnesses, preferably pious witnesses. I loved that mole because it was the surest way to get her attention without suffering the rapid reach of her backhand.
A few weeks ago as I was putting lotion on my Nora Ephroning neck and I felt a bump. You've got to be bloody kidding me. I don't even have any kids! steamrolled through my brain. Turns out, my button-mole is just right of center and not fully formed. It's there, but it's probably just waiting for my uterus to send it a sign.
I've also inherited key learned behaviors and prejudices from my mother. Things like overflowing drawers of underwear and super-stuffed linen closets, cheeseburger cravings, a penchant for an ever-revovling display of drinking glasses, a sketchy disdain for Osama-bearded black men. For the most part, all of these things steer me well.
The one maternally maddening thing of late that I'm most aware of, though, is one I cannot yet instigate: matrilineal reverse psychology (MRP). This skill requires a uterine passage of sorts, and so this psychological warp zone remains locked. My mother got it from her mother and so on in a way highly similar to the series of begats as outlined in Genesis. My hypothesis about this power is amazing and completely unfounded, but, in short, I believe that the power intensifies based on the number of babies you birth. Think about it. How else could Mama Duggar get her other kids to take care of her other kids so faithfully? Or, just think about how that Kate +/- just won't go the kcuf away. How else could she be wielding this sway? And Octomom?! Octopus. Tentacles. Ridiculous suction power. Reach. Et cetera.
Anyway, despite the size of my baby balloons which double as breasts, I obviously do not possess this power and that sucks because with a li'l enthusiasm and my mind, the power of a mother's reverse psychology would probably unearth the Taliban, blanket the world in peace and at a minimum, de-bump Snooki's hairpiece. I mean, just imagine if all of the Jewish, Catholic, un-medicated and mamas-like-my-mama mothers combined forces?
It's incontheivable, I know, but just think about it.
Here's just one example of how it works:
A family of females gather upon a porch in the South. They are greeting each other for the first time in a long time. Hugs and kisses abound and post-hug arms outstretch as physical assessments are made. They all take it all in, greeting each other one-by-one as they enter the doorway into the matriarch's home.
Me (bringing up the rear with the de-facto hostess): Hey, Gran! Look at you, lookin' all purty. How've you been?
Maggie Ruth (aka my mama's mama): I'm fine, chile. Well, look at you. Whatcha done done to your hair now?
(A bespectacled Maggie Ruth examines Danita's head. Her face is scrunched; she is puzzled and has visions of Africa.)
Maggie Ruth (not missing a beat): Awwww, well that's somethin' idn't it? Go on in. Let me look atcha. It's so good to see your sweet, smilin' face. You're always too sweet. I gotcha card. It was so nice.
(Meanwhile, the second examination quickly occurs. Maggie Ruth's face unscrunches, quickly frowns and then smiles politely.)
Maggie Ruth (simultaenously patting and BMI-measuring Danita's upper arm): Well, at least you're still healthy. Come on in here and get yourself something to eat.
Me: Aw, Gran'ma. I ain't hardly even hungry, and yes, as you so kindly noted, I'm still plenty healthy.
Maggie Ruth (laughing): Well, you've always been healthy so I don't see why you'd want to change it now. Big girls are in now, anyhow. Least that's what they said on Good Morning America. There's a man out there who'll love it. Awll of it, honey. Come on in the kitchen. You oughtta cut your hair like Robin's. Hers is sharp. I gotcha plate ready for you and there's tea in the refrigerator.
Me: Mmmmhm. Well I'm not hungry. It's too hot to eat. I'mma wait awhile.
Ten minutes go by. Danita flips through all five of Maggie Ruth's television channels. She is not actually hungry, but was visibly made less hungry by Maggie Ruth's comments. The other ladies are in the kitchen cutting cake, sipping tea, slurping spaghetti, gnawing on chicken thighs, licking sauce from their fingers. They are all laughing, catching up on family gossip. Danita's mother, Mags, pops her head in the living room and Price-is-Right-Showcases a plate of potato salad, macaroni and cheese, green beans and ham. Danita harumphs.
Maggie Ruth (loudly from the other room): Danita. Come on in here and eat all this food I cooked for you. Margaret Ann. Tell her to come in here and eat. I'm too old to be standin' over this stove for nothin' if no one's going to eat all this food.
Me (actual age = 30, age of voice in this moment = 13): I'm not hungry. I'll eat later. I'm going to ride out to the country.
(The ladies, all older, are mothers. Murmuring commences.)
Mags (hushed): Mama, leave her alone. She'll eat when she's ready.
Aunt 1: She looks fine, Mama. I don't know why you always got to say something negative about somethin'. Pass me the potato salad.
Maggie Ruth (defiant): I didn't say nothin'! At least I didn't say nothin' we don't all already know. She big. Chile! Come on in here and eat this food. I ain't gon' bother you. I still love you.
End Scene
Two weekends ago Mags and I were shopping in JC Penney. Note, when I say mall, Mags hears JC Penney. If you try to take her to any other area of the mall she will almost immediately remind you that she will go "Crazy!" Except that now "Crazy!" is a wickedly effective MRP tactic. She won't bark at you now because now you have a lifetime of anticipating said bark. No, now she goes elementary on your grown ass and sits down on a bench, utters a firm and loud, "No means no," crosses her arms and refuses to budge until you come back with the immediate promise to bring the car directly to the door. With some TCBY in tow. You will think to yourself, "Well, ain't this some shit?"
And you will be right.
At any rate, there we were in Penneys waiting on 3 o'clock so Mags could use her discount coupon on some more--wait for it--sheets. I decided to peruse the clothing section for tops and Mags followed for our special mother-daughter dance. Muzak or no muzak, I pick something up, she pretends to be blind or deaf or both. She picks something up? I roll my eyes. Slide to the next rack and repeat until she picks up something orange and I go, "Ooooh. Lemme see."
In her hands she holds a delightful burnt orange, empire waisted top. I inquire about the price, hear $7.99 and think, "Ding! Plus the coupon! Score!" I move in for a closer inspection because something may be wrong with a summertime shirt on sale for that price. I see Duo where the old-school tag would be.
Duo means two. Not two as in number of breasts one possess, but two as in Mommy and Me. I frown.
"Mama. Put that back. It's a maternity shirt."
"So?"
"So ... I sleep alone. So ... my uterus is unemployed. So ... my name isn't Mary and this ain't Bethlehem."
"So, you've got a gut and this will help with that."
Speechless. Followed by the gathering of a small spool of drool at the corner of my un-hinged face.
"Well, you do have a gut. I've told you about that thing. See the pleats? They'll, um, what's that word. The pleats," she gestures towards me like she's drumming up applause. "The pleats will, um, smooth you out. Nobody will notice your stomach because the pleats will cover it. See?"
She plants it on me and continues chirping away. "See there? It just smooths right on over it. It looks good. It looks like all the other shirts you wear."
"None of my shirts say Duo|Materinity, Mama. You know why? 'Cause I ain't birthin' no babies, that's why."
"Who will know the difference? You just said you sleep alone. Anyway, it comes up to the same place those other ones do. Right below your chest and that's all anyone will ever see anyway. You can't get around those things."
"I am not having a baby so I'm not wearing a maternity shirt."
"Don't be stupid. You gon' show anybody the tag? How they gon' know? I ain't gonna tell nobody. Ain't nobody to tell no how."
MRP well in effect.
"I do like that color."
"Yes, you do," she says to me.
In hindsight, at this moment, I am actually Snow White thinking about how delightfully tasty red apples are.
"And it is on sale," I convince myself out loud. "Like, for real, sale. And you're right, I'm not going to show anyone the tag, but the pleats look weird."
"You've hated pleats since you were a little girl and you have always looked the best in pleats, you just don't want to believe me. I know what looks good. It's in your color and it's your favorite style. Empire. Just like in Pride & Prejudice."
Ahm-peer she says, channeling Stacy London, with a sly reference to the Lizzy Bennet in me.
Sold. Hook, line and sinkered.
A couple of hours later we were chatting in my Aunt Mary's dining room.
"Y'all went shopping without me?"
"We just went to JC Penney. You know Mama don't do the mall, mall."
"Ooooh! Still. What'd you buy?"
"Just some tops," I say. Nonchalantly thumbing through a catalog.
"Yeah, some maternity tops," chimes Mags. She's chucklin', just like Ursula did when she snapped Ariel's voice shut in that box in The Little Mermaid. The chuckle bubbles and grows and chortles and billows into a great big ol' Vincent Price bwahahaha.
I sit there seething, thinking about her buttons which I can no longer push. She's beyond perturbin' now. She's an old lady, she ain't bothered by nothin' I say. She'll always have the upper-hand, if not to backhand me with, then for sure to sucker punch.