Inheritance
Dear Live Journal,
Last night as I readied for bed, I realized that I’ve reached that point in my adult life when the mirror on the wall speaks the truth that most of us make ardent effort to avoid hearing: You have become your mother.
Case in point: I now own and covet a Lanz flannel nightgown. The same caliber of nightgown that my mom wore throughout my childhood. I distinctly remember waking from nightmares with my mom bedside and me burrowing into her softness that was magnified by the blanketed effect of her Lanz nightgown. Later, in high school, I would come home to the tune of an 11:30 curfew and find my mother at the kitchen table, sipping black tea, wearing...the Lanz nightgown--an entity so big and tent-like, I often imagined my mom wearing layers of clothing beneath it: her white dental hygienist uniform, perhaps a cocktail dress or her bright yellow terry cloth beach cover-up. It certainly would have all fit.
By any standard, the Lanz nightgown is unattractive. Mine looks like wearable wallpaper: stripes of delicate pink flowers and powder blue dots. Its generous fabric fits me like a tablecloth and never fails to billow when I walk. I’ve never been one for satin nighties, anyway, so it’s not like I’ve crossed over into unchartered frumpiness territory. I guess it’s just--well, like last night, when I got into bed and cuddled up with my Tom Perrotta novel, I couldn’t help but notice the scalloped cotton lace along my wrist and the fact that my entire body had inherited something that I couldn’t have found on my own.
Sometimes I mentally grumble at what I’ve become heir to from my mom: ample thighs, an insatiable need to keep my hands busy, insomnia. Even the desire to buy the Lanz nightgown in the first place. Except this time, I’ve got nothing but gratitude.
Peace and love,
Stacey