My Mother's Daughter

My mother visited last week.

Arriving essentially at a moments notice to look after my niece and nephew whilst their parents sought to find a home in South Carolina before the tax credit expired.

Lois got the call on Saturday and was here for dinner on Monday.

Lois rocks.

You know what else?

I am so completely turning into her.

Lois stereotypes.
She says things become stereotypes because they are true.
I say, yes, that is right, but that doesn't mean we can call an entire sect of the population stubborn just because of their ancestory.

I've tried logic.
"Mom, you're Polish. Are you stupid?
She looks at me with not a trace of a smile.
"I am Irish. Am I drunk?"

"The Irish are impervious to analyis," declared Lois.
She has said this before -usually to illustrate my father's rigidity.
She wasn't wrong about Dad, but I still think my message was lost.

"Mother, please don't stereotype like that. It makes you sound foolish, " I plead mixing love with just enough mortification to make my point.

Yes, my vantage point from perfection is lovely. Thank you for asking.

Fast forward to dinner on Saturday night.
We are wrapping up, boys are already playing in the other room.

A loud motorcycle roars past the house, catching the attention of 15 month-old niece.

"No motorcycle men for you, " Stephanie trills, bouncing her daughter.

"That's right," I chime in, "Motorcyle boys are never sufficiently educated."

Lois looks up.

Gulp.
Double gulp.
Have completely forgotten she is dating George, who both owns and rides motorcycles.
And is also an educated, well paid engineer.

"Sorry about that," I tell her looking at my plate.

It's hard sometimes for me to get my head around the changes in my mother in the last three years.

At the ripe age of 70, she now rides motorcycles, goes to backyard jams (whatever the hell that is) and goes deep sea fishing. She is also, much to the surprise of the children she put through Catholic School, part Jewish.

I love the internet and am gleeful for sites like www.ancestory.com and the nugets they've unearthed, but I think she found the Jewish part mostly to make my oldest living relative, Aunt Vivian (see Jamie Davis blog) certifiably crazy. Vivian and Lois are basically the same bloodline yet somehow my mother is Polish and Vivian is Scandanavian. It's a puzzler.

Lois is clearly ready and eager to respond to my stereo-typing ways.

"Most of the cycle people I know, Heather, are well educated and earn quite well. It's actually a very expensive hobby."

Having no retort, I wait for someone to jump in.
All Steph can come up with is "Oh, of course. We just meant the Hell's Angels."

Like Hell's Angels is recruiting and looking for a nice crop of toddlers to round out their memebership.

There's a bit of off silence in the room.
A few minutes pass.
We all pray one of the boys will set off the fire alarm.

Finally Mom decides I can be let off the hook for being narrow-minded about motor cycles.

"Was that your neighbor before when we were on the porch, Heather?" Lois asks while Lucio and I are gathering dishes.

"Her boyfriend," I tell her, getting up from the table and walking to the kitchen.

"Those were two mieskeits!" Lois declares.

Look it up. I had to to spell it correctly.

I turn the corner into the kitchen, where Lucio is grinning like a idiot.
Through my smile I whisper, "how can she be so judgemental?"

To which Lucio answers, "You mean like when you saw the Grow -Don't Mow bumper sticker on his car and decided you would call the police if the lawn went more than 2 weeks without a cut?"

"Well, that's completely different."