I AM MY MOTHER

[Pravin Kumar]

I Am My Mother

Anne Tews Schwab



I swore it would never happen. In fact, I spent most of my life trying to make sure it wouldn’t happen. And yet it crept up on me when I wasn’t looking.

I am now officially my mother.


Don’t get me wrong: My mother is a wonderful, smart, funny, loving, sweet woman, and I love her dearly. But I swore I’d never be like her.

How could I ever be so cruel as to not let my five-year-old child eat sugared cereal every morning for breakfast? How could I even think about banning cartoons from my children’s lives? And how could I ever be so heartless as to not allow my child dessert until she had eaten something healthy first?

Then there were the teen years. What kind of mother imposes a curfew on her teenage daughter, I asked. Didn’t she trust me? And what was the idea of making the boys I went out with come inside to meet her and Dad before I could leave? They weren’t going out with my parents so why should they have to meet them?

Never would I subject my children to these atrocities.

My children, I vowed, would be allowed to survive on chocolate bars and, of course, sugared cereal. They would watch TV until their eyes popped out if that is what they so desired. Curfew? Not in my house! My children could stay out all night, and the next day, too, if they wanted, and I would applaud their independence and trustworthiness.

My children would have such a cool and hip mom that they would probably invite me to their parties, and all of the other kids would say, “Cool! There’s that awesome mom! Boy, are her kids lucky!”

I also planned on never worrying. I watched my mother worry about me, about my sisters, about everything it seemed, and I knew I would never be like that. I told her often that she had no need to worry about me—I’d be home by midnight, maybe 1:00 a.m., and everything would be fine. There was no need to worry—the car has only a few dents in it, and nobody was hurt. What’s to worry about? Why worry about my friends? They are very nice people who simply happen to have spiked hair, tattoos and pierced body parts. No need to worry. I could handle myself.

I planned on never worrying like that with my children. I planned on being hip and cool. I would, of course, always dress in the most recent fashions, and never, ever, wear “mom” clothes. I would be so hip that my children’s friends would think I was one of them.

Yes, that was my plan. To be the coolest, hippest mother around. To enforce only one rule in my house—there are no rules. I was planning on a complete revolt from my upbringing; I was planning on giving my children everything I was so brutally deprived of.

But something happened along the way.

I had a child of my own.

On the day I brought my little girl home from the hospital, I made my husband throw out all the remaining sugared cereal. When she started eating solid food, I never gave her anything sweet until she had something healthy first.

And she has yet to see a cartoon on TV.

She hasn’t hit the teen years yet, but I shudder to think of all the things she will want to do, and all of the things I won’t let her do. I’ve already decided she’ll have an 8:00 p.m. curfew and not be allowed to date until she’s eighteen. Of course, I reason, this is all for her own good, and so she’ll understand and meekly go along with my rules. Or not.

I’m already worried.

But she will always be showered with love, affection and adoration. She already loves to read books, and she has a penchant for broccoli and other vegetables. Okay, maybe not the veggies, but the rest is true.

As for me, I’ve finally admitted that my mom was pretty great after all. Even though I was deprived of so many wonderful, glorious things as a child, I turned out okay. And I have a feeling that my little girl will, too—although she’ll probably grow up planning all her life not to be like me. I only hope I can be as good a mother to her as my mother was, and is, to me.