But, in my case, this comment gets made by many different people on a regular basis, whether when my mom and I are out together or when someone sees a picture of us. Because my mom and I are actually twins.
Okay, not actually, because we all know genetics doesn't work that way.
Unless I was cloned . . . which is not entirely out of the question . . .
Nahhh, I've got my dad's weird sense of humor and tendency to talk to myself. (Exhibit A, the conversation I just had with myself via text. Oops.)
But my mom and I are pretty darn similar--in looks, mannerisms, the way we think, the way we interact with people. And when we're together, we act like sisters, giggling at the silliest things, talking about shopping and mani/pedis, and people-watching like there's no tomorrow. Sometimes she sends me pictures of Ryan Gosling just so we can bask in how attractive he is.
Now, I don't have an actual sister, but my brother and I certainly aren't sitting around trading pics of hot dudes.
In her role as my sister-mom (though, now that I think about it, I'm not a huge fan of that term, as it reminds me of something you'd hear on some weird Mormon polygamy compound--but I digress, you know what I mean), she is always there for me when I need her. She made sure I had the perfect pair of expensive prom shoes even though she knew I was only going to wear them for three hours of my life. She helped me torture a voodoo doll of my high school arch nemesis (if you missed that story, you should check it out here.) She always made sure I had the coolest themed birthday parties when I was a kid; one was a "Surivivor" party (like with buffs and Jeff Probst, not like with Destiny's Child, although that would have been pretty sweet too) complete with bonfires, sleeping in tents, ridiculous obstacle courses, and nasty food challenges--which was all pretty sick until one girl almost got blinded by smoke and was sent home. (But hey, survival of the fittest, I guess.)
My mom is always trying to protect me too. When we're in the car and she has to stop quickly, her arm automatically flings out across my chest (because that will definitely stop all the momentum of a several thousand pound hunk of metal crashing into us . . . although moms are supposed to have super strength in times of crisis, so maybe I shouldn't joke). One time, when we were staying at a cabin in Gatlinburg for my senior spring break, she thought a bloodthirsty serial killer was on the loose in the night, and she was poised and ready to call 911 with one hand and karate chop that bastard to Timbuktu with the other. (It turned out some hillbillies were just hunting raccoons or something at three in the morning, totally normal.) Another time, when she came to visit me when I was staying at Wolfie's farmhouse, she woke me up in the night because she thought a strange white van was in the driveway, and she was more than prepared to use Wolfie's century-old farm tools to go all Saw VI on this rapist/robber/killer's ass. (That one turned out to just be MY car in the driveway . . . but it was dark . . . and the house probably had a gas leak causing hallucinations . . . or something.)
Whenever I need someone to run lines with me--a semi-banal activity that most of my friends hate--she'll gladly spend hours going through my script, using a different voice for every character.
When I was four and I wanted to be a witch for Halloween, she spent an exorbitant amount of time painting my face to perfection, complete with a nasty witch wart and all. When I then cried upon seeing myself in the mirror because I was too scary, she washed her masterpiece away to ease my fears.
When I got in my first wreck in her car (which pretty much consisted of me knocking this woman's side mirror off while she was sleeping in her car, and her aggressively bitching me out--talk about over-reacting . . .), and I called her crying, she had someone drive her right over, and she even let me buy a dress to make myself feel better.
When my dad cut his finger open one Halloween and needed stitches, she dropped me off at a friend's house so that I could still get my mad candy swag on while they were at the hospital. I got a whole bag of freshly-popped kettlecorn and a new toothbrush to compliment it that year.
When I was at a dance competition and someone else's mom drew ridiculous dark brown eyebrows on my already ridiculously gem-covered face, my mom scrubbed those suckers till they were almost a normal shade so I wouldn't look like a scary eyebrow monster in all the pictures.
When my boyfriend broke up with me right before finals season freshman year, she sent me my favorite kind of cookies--chocolate chip sans chocolate chips--the very next day, along with an encouraging Hallmark card with bunnies on it.
When her mom (with whom she had a very strained relationship) was in the hospital, we roadtripped up to Illinois together to see her, and despite the deep emotional issues involved with the situation, we laughed and laughed and almost peed our pants everywhere we went, joking about Schwan's root beer floats, and people crunching ice, and Grandma Fran telling me the stuffed puppy I bought her at the gift store was ugly. We kept each other sane.
And that's what we always do: keep each other sane. We try to make sure we're not being stupid. Should we text that person back? Should we eat that massive dessert? Should we really watch all twelve hours of that crime show marathon? We look out for each other and support each other and, of course, make sure that we always look fabulous.
Most college kids don't talk to their parents much. They might text, maybe call them occasionally. But I talk to my mom at the same time every single day.
Because we're two peas in one genetic pod--or probably more like a Twix bar, because, let's be real, peas are too healthy for our taste. One of us without the other is like Olivia Benson without Eliot Stabler (before they got rid of him on SVU, which is just malarkey, as we all know), or like Mary Kate without Ashley, or like Tommy without Chuckie (the goofy redhead with the untied shoes, not that creepy murderous doll). We're a team.
When I was little, my mom used to tuck me in and kiss me goodnight with the same little routine. She'd say, "I love you *kiss* God bless you *kiss* Sweet dreams *kiss* See you in the morning *kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss* You are my world." I remember that mantra sometimes, and I realize that the reverse still is, always has been, and always will be, true. You are my world, Mom. A huge reason why I am the crazy, fun, caring, driven, mostly-put-together-at-least-in-public person that I am. And for that, I will never be able to thank you enough.
Happy Mother's Day, Momma!
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