I am my mother afterall…

I’ve always thought that much as we resist, we are genetically programmed to turn into our parents at some point. My lovely friend Jo Avery sums it up quite nicely on her blog.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, I am my mother after all.
The final realisation hit me as I bit down into my crackerbreads and light cheese spread that I can hide from it no more. I am my mother.
I have become a 1976 housewife.
I ride to school on my bicycle with a basket on the front. Just like my Mum.
I eat two crackerbread’s for lunch whilst watching Australian soaps. Just like my Mum. Only she watched The Sullivans and Sons and Daughters. I watch Neighbours and HomeĀ & Away.
I help out at my children’s school listening to children read. Just like my Mum.
I tell my children to not sit on public toilets. Just like my Mum.
I wipe muckiness off their faces with my own spit. Just like my Mum.
I go to coffee mornings whilst the kids are at school. Just like my Mum.
I buy all my school uniform from M&S because, ‘it washes well.’ Just like my Mum.
I don’t like going out on Saturday nights anymore. I used to chastise my Mum for this as a teenager, seeing it as a sure sign of having no life. Now I am to be found with a cup of tea (not even alcohol) on the sofa watching Strictly Come Dancing on a Saturday night. JustĀ like my Mum.

God help my other half…