My adolescent years were certainly not my proudest decade. Although a little rebellion and teenage mischief are to be expected, and even encouraged in some families, the war I waged in my parents' house was hardly that of the teenage status quo. Other than staying out past curfew, lying about sleepovers at girlfriends' houses, pushing my car in neutral down the street so as to prevent waking my parents by starting my muffer-less vehicular after sneaking out to rendez-vous with whoever may have organized some beers for the wee hours of the morning, I also constantly fought with my mother on any request, big or small (and often they were small), she may have asked of me.
Although my weekly chores were no hassle in my prepubescent years, it seems my pituitary gland not only alerted my hormones, it also triggered a violent reaction to all household duties. Each Friday, I would have to clean the bathrooms, clean and dust the bedrooms, clean the kitchen, and vacuum the house. Chores I shared with my older brother until he left for university. Flying solo on my chores not only encouraged shortcuts to complete the tasks quicker, it also made 'cheating' easier, as my always-honest-brother wasn't there to shake his head in disapproval.
I remember switching the toothbrushes and soap around on the bathroom sinktop, intentionally not spraying or cleaning the surface, reckoning that my mother would see the items misplaced and assume that I'd cleaned sink and merely replaced the items incorrectly. I failed to understand that my mother could see straight through these attempts, as a dirty sinktop looks dirty regardless of toothbrush and soap position. I can also recall crawling on my hands and knees picking bits of lint out of the carpet, and using my hands to push and pull the carpet in rows, so as to trick my mother into thinking that I'd vacuumed. This tomfoolery almost certainly consumed more time than simply pulling out the vacuum and completing the chore correctly. However, in my adolescent brain, it was sensible to work harder if it meant somehow getting around the requests of my mother.
As I've grown into my own womanhood, I find shadows and reflections of my mother in nearly all aspects of my life. Our remarkable resemblance is one so similar that aged grandparents and great uncles cannot distinguish 29 year-old me from their memory of my 29 year-old mother. We also walk, stand, and speak similarly. My father (long since divorced from my mother) recently told me that it must be strange for my mother's family to see so much of young woman her in young woman me. To which I asserted that surely it is stranger for him.
Remarkable resemblance and all exterior similarities aside, my mother and I also share similar personalities. And although adolescent Arielle surely would have never expected it, I have become a weekly house cleaner. However, in my own house, I am sure to actually wipe down the sink and use the vacuum to clean the floors.
A few months ago, when back home visiting my family in the states, my mother, step-father and I traveled to my mother's hometown of Birmingham, Alabama, where my 89 year-old disabled grandmother lives with my not-so-clean uncle. Before my mother even set down all of her luggage, she managed to take out the trash, put on a load of laundry, clean bathrooms, and get the dishes in order. Needless to say, my weekend task was to clean, clean, clean anything my mother thought appropriate. Fortunately, my rebellious years are over and I did each task my mother asked of me with a smile on my face, breaking only to eat or walk the dog with my step-dad.
Upon finishing cleaning my mammaw's room, my mother came to me, a little teary eyed and expressed how appreciative she was that I was there to help. She hugged me and said, "I'm so happy you're here, and you don't mind cleaning." To which I responded that I was sorry my willingness to help came as such a surprise.
It's moments like these that show me I'm actually an adult now. Doing things for the people we love because we love them is far too simple an idea for the scheming mind of an adolescent. I wish I'd always cleaned my mother's house the way she wanted it. I wish being kind and respectful of my family had been an easier thing for me when I was younger. And although I cannot change my past behaviors, they still bear some utility as a great gauge of my own maturity.
Although my weekly chores were no hassle in my prepubescent years, it seems my pituitary gland not only alerted my hormones, it also triggered a violent reaction to all household duties. Each Friday, I would have to clean the bathrooms, clean and dust the bedrooms, clean the kitchen, and vacuum the house. Chores I shared with my older brother until he left for university. Flying solo on my chores not only encouraged shortcuts to complete the tasks quicker, it also made 'cheating' easier, as my always-honest-brother wasn't there to shake his head in disapproval.
I remember switching the toothbrushes and soap around on the bathroom sinktop, intentionally not spraying or cleaning the surface, reckoning that my mother would see the items misplaced and assume that I'd cleaned sink and merely replaced the items incorrectly. I failed to understand that my mother could see straight through these attempts, as a dirty sinktop looks dirty regardless of toothbrush and soap position. I can also recall crawling on my hands and knees picking bits of lint out of the carpet, and using my hands to push and pull the carpet in rows, so as to trick my mother into thinking that I'd vacuumed. This tomfoolery almost certainly consumed more time than simply pulling out the vacuum and completing the chore correctly. However, in my adolescent brain, it was sensible to work harder if it meant somehow getting around the requests of my mother.
As I've grown into my own womanhood, I find shadows and reflections of my mother in nearly all aspects of my life. Our remarkable resemblance is one so similar that aged grandparents and great uncles cannot distinguish 29 year-old me from their memory of my 29 year-old mother. We also walk, stand, and speak similarly. My father (long since divorced from my mother) recently told me that it must be strange for my mother's family to see so much of young woman her in young woman me. To which I asserted that surely it is stranger for him.
Remarkable resemblance and all exterior similarities aside, my mother and I also share similar personalities. And although adolescent Arielle surely would have never expected it, I have become a weekly house cleaner. However, in my own house, I am sure to actually wipe down the sink and use the vacuum to clean the floors.
A few months ago, when back home visiting my family in the states, my mother, step-father and I traveled to my mother's hometown of Birmingham, Alabama, where my 89 year-old disabled grandmother lives with my not-so-clean uncle. Before my mother even set down all of her luggage, she managed to take out the trash, put on a load of laundry, clean bathrooms, and get the dishes in order. Needless to say, my weekend task was to clean, clean, clean anything my mother thought appropriate. Fortunately, my rebellious years are over and I did each task my mother asked of me with a smile on my face, breaking only to eat or walk the dog with my step-dad.
Upon finishing cleaning my mammaw's room, my mother came to me, a little teary eyed and expressed how appreciative she was that I was there to help. She hugged me and said, "I'm so happy you're here, and you don't mind cleaning." To which I responded that I was sorry my willingness to help came as such a surprise.
It's moments like these that show me I'm actually an adult now. Doing things for the people we love because we love them is far too simple an idea for the scheming mind of an adolescent. I wish I'd always cleaned my mother's house the way she wanted it. I wish being kind and respectful of my family had been an easier thing for me when I was younger. And although I cannot change my past behaviors, they still bear some utility as a great gauge of my own maturity.
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