Taking Stock Of Our Locks

It's a bit funny that our mom is in curlers in this photo. She has always had very naturally curly hair. But for most of her teens she sported sixties-type bobs that I supposed required this sort of silly but now almost iconic beauty prep.



And it's probably why she rebelled in her twenties and wore her hair all Yoko style. Long and psuedo-straightened, like a frizzy blanket. But don't let her fool you like she did us when we were little kids, asking ourselves "why can't we have long straight hair like Mom?"

Me with my awkward mop of strangely layered bangs (thanks Mom for the home cuts too) and curls that I would brush out with a plastic bristly brush that was guaranteed to turn any curl into static poof. Kathleen with practically no hair until she was three, just cotton candy puffs of blonde, who would drape our mom's long dark tresses over her own head, and pretend it was hers. If Mom's hair wasn't handy she'd also be known to rubberband pieces of fabric like a headdress on her head to feel like she had long straight hair. Um, strangely fooling no one.



But as we got older, we realized that our Mom's hair was very curly. Especially once she put down the hair dryer in about her mid-thirties and never picked it up again til this day. And guess what? Our hair was curly, too. Especially once we moved out of the house and all stopped using that same bristly plastic brush.



Of course, even though Mom pretty much settled on her curly style and stuck with it, Kathleen and have gone through all sorts of hair evolutions, many disguising the curls. Like Kathleen's "bear buns" phase. Cute little pigtail-style buns on either side of her head that she wore in her late teens. I picked up the style in my twenties for a while, a messier-bun version with bangs. Very art director.

And even though I always influenced Kathleen's hair when she was a kid (sessions in the bathroom with a curling iron, a can of hairspray and a scrunchy and Kathleen comes out looking just like a sister on Full House) we've begun to reverse rolls. Kathleen picks up a style and I can't help but start to adapt it to my own hair.

I honestly think it's because I look at her all the time. But I always go for a less high-maintenance version (granted with less stunning results) but also more getting-kids-ready-in-the-morning friendly. Plus, I think I got some of my Mom's "eh" attitude about just not spending too much energy on it.

Mom always thinks Kathleen looks like Julia Roberts in this picture, by the way. Fitting, since she's a famous "curly-girl" herself who has also gone through phases of curl acceptance and curl denial.



Then we both went darker and more retro. Short bobs and flips. Not a curl in sight.



But over the past few years we've both just decided to go with it.

I actually read a book once called Curly Girl. It was written by a hairdresser who was sort of bucking the system and the snobbery in her industry about curly hair. So even thoug it was a little bit about cultivating your curls and how to cut and style them, etc... what always stuck with me was these little stories and testimonials from other curly girls, and the point the book makes about how society makes us feel about curly hair, and how we make ourselves feel about it. Basically, curly hair equals emotional, messy or out of control. Straight hair equals put together and sharp.

One of my favorite stories was from a straight-haired mom with a curly headed little girl. This mom was so stressed about this mess of hair she was responsible for, and just didn't know what to do, and once she figured it out thanks to Curly Girl (i.e. stop brushing her hair) it was this huge relief.

I don't think our mom ever really stressed about our hair, because she's a beauty is skin deep kind of a person, and a just "go with what you've got" kind of person on top of that. I think Kathleen and I are figuring that out, too. Of course Kathleen is always going to take it to the next level, whether posting an anatomy of an outfit on her blog, or posing as a hopelessly hip designer-turned-model for one day.

Sometimes I pose with her. Not in a model way, like in a personal branding sort of way. You know, now that we're respectable business-types (and yes, curly hair can be professional too.) As you can see the blonde made it's way over to older sister here, as well. What can I say? Kathleen's personal brand is catching.

So in the spirit of thankfulness, thanks for keeping me current, Kathleen. It's maybe not your typical "what-I'm-thankful-for" Thanksgiving dinnertable sentiment. But I think I owe thanks to someone else even more (since I gave her a hard time about the bangs and the brush). Even though it took us a while to figure out what to do with them, curls and frizz and out-of-control and all...

thanks for the locks, Mom.

Now, Donny's hair is a whole other story in itself. From long hair to no hair to the most memorable handlebar (talk about personal branding) mustache. You can read about it here.

The Monkey Stays In The Picture. Pants Not So Much.

Ah, Facebook Timeline. If only the Thomas family could start their path this far back.

I pulled this fairly, oh... dull and brown and not-so-interesting group picture from my archive (I've decided to call it the archive now, because it sounds impressive). And at first I was like "ah, yes, just a typical picture of Kathleen as a tomboy tot with only half of an outfit on," next to some other kids hanging out with Donny that I don't even know.

Then I see there are so many levels going on here.

First, Donny and his toothy shark toy which has a better fake smile than his, standing awkwardly in the middle of this group of much more cavalier (and apparently sporty) random boys who were probably just one-week-only vacation bible school acquaintances (hence the t-shirts from the quaint and sweet small country church we went to as little kids).

Next, note Kathleen who decides she must also be in the picture... but wait! Not without her fur. Her monkey fur stole. Which looks almost exactly like the fur vest she wore for a coffee meet today. So the church ties might not have bound, but the how that monkey slung across her shoulders made her feel was a state of grace she never shrugged off.

Then I think about our mom taking this picture. And not really giving a second thought to Kathleen being in this picture like this. Which, justly so, she really shouldn't have. I mean, it wasn't like our mom was going to share the photo with two-hundred-plus of her closest friends and family on Facebook at the time, so really there was no reason to accessorize her little girl with a clever floppy hat and a giant sunflower, or a mini-pair of movie-star sunglasses, or stage it in a field in front of a bale of hay... or make her put on, say... pants. No one will see it but grandma, who she sent the 4 x 6 duplicate to.

Not until I post it two minutes after finishing this story, that is.

Happy weekend, this is my gift to you. And, seriously, didn't like at least half of you have this exact same monkey at some point in your lives? Or now? It's classic.

Paper Plate To-Do Lists

This is what a to-do list looks like in the Thomas family. No, we don't just use paper plates to create our own post apocalyptic "bust-the-deal-face-the-wheel" tools of judgement. We also use them to remind us to get: "tickseed, tartar sauce, vice grips and squirrel food."

Our mom is really the one who invented this paper-plate planner system which is sure to be trendily re-designed for the masses and distributed in a cute Target office/day-planning/stationery aisle near you any day now, I'm sure.

But over the past week the paper plates have been multiplying at a frantic pace. Why? Well, because our parents have sold the house we've lived in for the past twenty years and are in the throes of getting the new house up to Thomas family standards. Pretty big deal. Lots of details. Many, many paper plates.

A perfect paper-plate example would be measurements for new curtains. Our mom is like a vampire, she cannot stand window glare, which is why Kathleen and I sang Cry Little Sister from Lost Boys to her all weekend. Plus, no one is cooking in all this chaos, so our dad is practically living off of Long John Silvers at this point (which is down the street in their new hood) and thus... extra tartar sauce is frankly, a must-have.

More to come on our clan's big move. Which involves mounting the boar's head, giving the dragons the perfect look-out point and trying to not freak out the neighborhood welcome committee.

The Big Heads

Have I ever mentioned that we all have freakishly big heads in our family? For instance, none of these hats are actually fitting us in this picture and we're like kids! We got this from our big-headed Dad, who has to special order his ball caps and fishing caps.

Other Freaky Traits We Got From Our Dad:

1. Kathleen got his leg veins. They kinda pop out. Her legs are so gorgeous it's kind of something you overlook. Like Angelina Jolie's ropy arms.

2. I got his ingrown toenails. Eesh. I had to get them cut out when I was like eleven. Like three different times. So did Kathleen for that matter.

3. Donny got his sleepwalking big time. And his mustache. And his grumble.

But we all got the big head. And I like to think the big brain to match. Although none of us seemed to get our Mom's freakish ability to win any and every Scrabble match she has ever played anybody. She has lately discovered Words With Friends on her iPad, and so she's taking her power to the whole next level. Now that I think about it, her noggin is pretty big, too.

You would think all this big-headedness makes the prospect of natural childbirth a bit intimidating in our family. But the best trait our mom passed down to us is being able to pop out some babies. Well, at least passed down to me, since Donny is a boy, and Kathleen has yet to foray into the baby-making or popping-out stage in her life.

But, she will probably now read this post and say "aww... I want a big-headed baby." And I would just suggest stretchy baby caps.

The Mom List

10 Things About My Mom:

1. She will do anything, ANYTHING, to park under the shade of a tree. We call her a shade whore.

2. She can whistle really, really loud by putting her fingers in the sides of her mouth. Like a sailor.

3. She is a lifelong reader. She reads at least four books a week if not more. It is one of the greatest things she taught me.

4. Her ears are not pierced and she rarely wears any jewelry or accessories at all. You would think Kathleen and I were changeling babies.

5. Her hair is crazy curly. That's how you can tell Kathleen and I are in fact her kin. That and the legs.

6. Dad told her that she had some damn fine legs for a 62 year old the other day. She said "I'm 60."

7. She has like twenty episodes of House Hunters International on her DVR list.

8. She cries all the time at movies and shows. Her "tell" is that she has to tilt up her glasses a little to wipe away the tears.

9. Her name is Wanda. Wanda Lee, actually.

10. She never, ever gets tired. She always just gives and gives. Like Shel Silverstein's dang Giving Tree. Granted, it got chopped down at the end. We'll just rewrite that ending.





Happy Mothers Day and Happy 60th Birthday (not 62 just yet) Mom!

Sunday Dresses & Studio Portrait Smiles

This is why Kathleen and I never smile with our teeth anymore. We're trying to come back from it, though. It's only taken twenty years.






This is also back when we used to have Sunday dresses, Sunday suits. We're a family lapsed. Case in point: a phone call I got from my mom two Saturdays ago.

Mom: "Don't forget the boys Easter baskets when you come down this morning."

Me: "Mom! It's not Easter!"

Mom: "Well, I know that it's not until tomorrow..."

Me: "No, like it's not Easter. At all. Not for like two weeks!"

Mom: "Oh. I have to go unhide all the eggs in the yard. Click."

We're about to drive down to my parent's this morning. It really is Easter this time. We won't be wearing ribbons, or ruffled collars, or checkered suits. It's raining, so the egg hunt in the backyard might be a little muddy. We like to take turns rehiding the eggs until they're a cracked mess. Kathleen, it's your turn! Charlie, it's your turn! Mom (that's me now) it's your turn!

And we'll be smiling. Teeth and all.

A Family. A Fair.

The Medieval Fair starts tomorrow in Norman, our home town. Chris and I will probably take Charlie along with my mom.

We'll eat some roasted corn. Listen to the bagpipes. Visit the mermaid's keep. Cheer on a joust. Wash down a humongous turkey leg or a piping hot meat pie with blue-glass bottle of sasparilla. Smirk at fifty-something fat friars with suspiciously modern Birkenstocks and middle aged wrinkled wenches getting sunburned cleavage on this first weekend of spring. Roll our eyes at fourteen-year old girls with fairy wings and glitter eyeshadow and their skinny pimply-faced boy counterparts trailing behind in dangerously tight leather pants and open-laced pirate shirts.

You know, like normal people do when they go to a Ren Fair. (That's insider lingo for Renaissance Fair. Why am I using insider lingo you ask? Um... well.... )

Yes, it's true. That's Donny the magician's squire (or something like that) in the foreground. And Kathleen the court jester in the background. Juggling. On a guy's shoulders.

When Kathleen and Donny were tweens (that was before they called them that) they were completely drawn in to the cloak-wearing, dagger-yielding, ye-olde-fake-accent-speaking world of Medieval Fair.

They belonged to a group (The Arthurian Order of Avalon to be precise) that practiced jousting and sword fighting and juggling and (okay, yes, role playing) year 'round in people's backyards or in the community rooms at the library or veteran's centers, or sometimes even on nature expeditions. But it all culminated with the Medieval Fair every spring.

Look at that cute little mouse on the end of Donny's staff (do you see it?!)

Our mom sewed so many awesome costumes for Donny and Kathleen over the years. And as they grew up, so did their characters. Kathleen was only a jester from about age nine to eleven. Then she was sort of like a little rascally tomboyish maid. But the last year she participated in the fair she had the most gorgeous Anne Boleyn costume. It was dark blue velvet and white silk and lace with tons of beading and detailing and that sucker was corseted on her so tight (and she was a complete waif) that she looked like a living doll. It was breathtaking really. I think she rode in on like a white horse even.

But Donny really grew up with Med Fair and the friends he made there. For years he just played the fool. He was always the court jester. The older boys, the more athletic boys (and don't let my skinny pimply-face comments above fool you, there were "golden" boys even in this Dungeons & Dragons circle of friends), like the Achemire brothers for example, blue eyed, bawdy, sulky, mysterious, beautiful boys who stole the heart of every girl, prancing in on their horses with chain mail and wooden shields and real swords and re-enacting these sweeping dramas for the crowd.

Meanwhile Donny the jester is practicing, practicing, practicing. Learning to juggle heavy knives and catch an apple in his teeth. Learning to breath actual fire. His sweet jester role soon evolved into the Evil Jester. The Arthurian group always does a living life-size chess match at every fair. There is the black and the white. Donny in tattered brocade and long black tresses, always did an impressive fire-breathing move as he took one of the white queen's pawns.

But on one of the later years, I think Donny was sixteen, one of the golden boys, was it an Achemire? Perhaps. He had a bloody accident in the joust earlier that morning. Like he broke his finger or something like that. And he was playing freakin' Lancelot (one of the star roles) in the chess match performance that afternoon.

Everyone was in a tizzy, the middle-aged wenches, the fat friars, the school-girl crush maids who could barely look up as they flocked around the Achemire, dressing his wounds, but all the same, joined the question... what would we do? Who could possible fill in for Lancelot, he had like 50 lines, plus three crucial elaborately choreographed fights!

And Donny piped up... "I can do it." He had been to every practice, watched every fight and heard every line from his jesters' spot for weeks. "Surely not shy Donny?" everyone thought.

But Donny. Literally. Slayed it. He came to life in front of the crowd. He nailed the lines. He swung that freaking sword. He wowed the onlookers with their roasted corn in one fist and turkey legs in the other. But mostly he wowed his peers. They talked about Donny all the rest of the day, and the rest of the month. "Who would have known?"

Donny was a golden boy, too. Just of a darker variety.

But of everyone, our mom was the proudest. Did I mention, um... so yeah, she was sort of like the queen.

The Dark Queen, of course. Hey, if she's going to put in the man hours making all those costumes, she might as well get one herself! She could even fight with a staff! Plus the Arthurians really needed some adult chaperones. I mean, fourteen year olds? Fairy wings and glitter? Tight leather pants. It's like pre-Twilight hormonal craziness, but I'm pretty sure those kids weren't as abstaining as much as Edward and Bella.

Donny, Mom (before she went all dark) and John (the youngest of the two Achemire boys, and Donny's first true best friend.)

We even pulled our Aunt Lynda and our little wood-nymph cousin Kaitlyn into the act one year. Lynda was fittingly earthy, Kaitlyn had a real bunny in a basket.

Why no pictures of me in this royal picture? Um, yeah, I was nerdy enough already. I didn't need any more help! Honestly, it was the age thing. When Kathleen and Donny first got involved they were still practically little kids. I was fourteen already. And, I already knew a girl in my grade who was already all sucked into that scene, and she truly believed with her heart-of-hearts that she was a descendent of honest-to-god elves. And she told anyone who would listen all about it. And of course, being teenagers, we completely ostracized her for it.

So no matter how many Excalibur and Labyrinth movies I had watched as a child (also 'cause of mom), or how many Robin Hood tales and Choose Your Own Adventure novels I had read, and as much in my secret heart-of-hearts I really, really, really wanted to do it... my teenage pride just wouldn't let me.

But I was my family's biggest fan. (Go figure.) I went to every joust and every chess match. I even designed the t-shirt for the Med Fair one year. I supportively "huzzahed" and"oohed and aahed" at all the appropriate moments. And I still love it every year. Even though my own kin no longer grace the chess board or ride across the muddy jousting field there's still always an Achemire, god love 'em and their dreamy blue eyes, to be spied in there – like those high school quarterbacks who just never give up the glory days.

Today at lunch Kathleen and I were chatting about the upcoming weekend. She told me how she always "confesses" her Med Fair past only after she's known people for while. Like on a recent nature hike with friends, when she revealed, "uh, hey guys, the last time I hiked up this trail I was in leather and chain mail."

She's decided that she isn't going to go with us on Saturday. To clarify, we are just normal looking spectators now. Our freak flags... or should I say courtly banners... hidden from the casual eye. Kathleen sighed that it's too windy and the fair has gotten just too huge and crowded (thousands and thousands flock to it annually).. she's just gotten over it.

But I'd bet a giant turkey leg she'll cave at the last minute and tag along. Aw hell... I gotta just end with it. Huzzah!

Pink And White And...

... a very young bride.

If these silly-sweet pictures of Kathleen don't quite match the silly-sweet ones you've seen of her wedding. That's because these are from her other wedding. The first one.

Mom made the dress. And the pink sash. And I posed in funny pictures with her. And our dad walked her down the aisle. It was a garden wedding with pink roses, a buffet with pink shrimp and it was very picturesque. And pink.

When Kathleen told me and mom she was getting divorced two years later, it was in the food court at the mall. Mom cried over her Sbarros cheese pizza. Kathleen, in her Kathleen-logic was like "I'm either getting divorced or getting a tattoo." I told her to get the divorce. I have always been dead-set against Kathleen getting a tattoo.

We all really liked Kathleen's other husband a lot. He was very sweet and funny and owned his own record store. And they both rode scooters and had a cute little dog named, Go-Go (the name came from Kill Bill). Everyone was always surprised that they married young. No shotguns involved, or anything like that. So it seemed almost indie and rebellious that they were playing house. They even bought one.

But once Kathleen decides something. She decides something. (Case in point, she got the tattoo anyway a few years later. Sigh.)

And our mom eventually stopped silently tearing up about it. (The divorce, not the tattoo. Only I still silently tear up about the tattoo.)

Mom is always on our side. Even if our side isn't necessarily black and white. She sticks with us through the grey stuff, and when it comes to us, she usually does it with rose-colored glasses. So, really, we always know whatever we do... it will come out pink.

Happy Valentine's, Mom.

At least they didn't have any kids, right?

Black Sheep. Black Banana.

Black Sheep.

Found this retro 70's looking yarn-crafted sheep art at an antique store and hung it in our first baby nursery. Now it's in our bedroom. Note how the black sheep refuses to face forward.

Black Banana.

It's Saturday morning and about to head to my parents house to hang out with the family. Mom's already informed me she's making banana bread. We tend to get on banana bread kicks every once in a blue moon. Translation: I want banana bread, Mom makes it. Then she just keeps making it 'til we all get sick of it.

This time the trend spread to my Aunt Lynda who lives near Austin. She told my mom on the phone last week that she was seriously craving banana bread, but none of her bananas were ripe enough. Until, that is, she found like this seriously black, like 100% black banana accidentally hidden away.

So she mashed it up with the kind-of-overripe-but-not-great bananas, and apparently it was like pure banana extract. It made her banana bread like banana bread crack. Thus, Uncle Pete got hooked and couldn't stop thinking about the black banana bread.

Fast forward a couple days. Uncle Pete goes to visit some friends for the day in the beautiful scenic Hill Country of Texas. Sees that they have this disgusting black banana in the banana bowl that they are about to throw away and asks if he can have it. Comes back at the end of the evening with a sly look on his face and his hands behind his back, and then proudly "presents" this black banana to Aunt Lynda.

She's like all breathless and excited "ahhh, you brought me a black banana" and then promptly whipped up another loaf of what is now apparently the banana bread of the gods.

By the way, unlike Kathleen, this is the closest I get to writing a cooking/baking post. And it's about other people cooking/baking for me. My specialty is literally tomato soup and grilled cheese. And probably some twisted reason why I like fake food.

Just call me the black sheep of the family kitchen.

Sisters

My mom is also a sister.

Aunt Lynda, the red head.

My mom, Wanda, the raven-haired.

Aunt Becki the typical youngest – a blonde.

Despite the Witches of Eastwick diversity in the tresses department, they are all from the same father, not the postman, the milkman or the er.. bakerman? Or, at least that's our grandma's story, and she's sticking to it.

Don't they just look like you walked in on something "between sisters." Don't they also look like they're all texting? Then I realized they are playing cards. Sigh.

I tend to gravitate to pictures of them from the seventies and early eighties, because they are the age that Kathleen and I are now. And it endlessly intrigues me. Their hair and clothes, yes, but also wondering what they were going through. Their flaws that just make them prettier and even more interesting.

But the reason I decided to extrapolate on the mom post, is because today my Aunt Lynda sent me this email:

I probably should put this as a comment on the blog - but it's too long. I loved your blog about Mom/Me. One of the things you probably wouldn't have great insight on is what a wonderful sister she is. What I really want to say as a comment....

DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS HAVING A PERFECT SISTER?

Becki and I laugh about this all the time and come up with inside jokes because our lives have had so much drama and things just didn't turn out for us in the perfect way they did for our perfect sister, for example:

1. "I think I'll get pregnant next Tuesday." She got pregnant on the day she wanted. She had the baby (you) so fast that it didn't even hurt (much). Nobody has a perfect delivery like that...except Wanda.

I had to wait until I was 35 to have a living baby...suffered greatly, the baby was in NICU for 7 days....not so perfect. But guess who was there to support me for the C-section and the first few days...Of course, the perfect sister Wanda!!! And she really did help me get through such a scary time.

2. HER LEGS. She has legs like a race horse (and arms) and not even being almost 60 has had any effect on those muscular beautiful lean legs.

3. The last thing I want to say is something else you might not know....when we were growing up and somebody would ask Wanda what she wanted to be when she grew up (this was until she graduated from high school)...she always said A MOTHER. I knew she meant it. Your blog tells the story of a young girl who grew up to be exactly what she always wanted to be and who does it so well - a mother....oh, and a grandmother.

It makes me really happy that I have a perfect sister. I hope she never has sickness (like me)...or has to be unhappy or suffer for any reason. I want my life to have one little perfect piece...my sister who is perfect, loving and smart.

Love,

Lynda

P.S. Becki has a great idea for another blog subject...."The Thomas Big Head"

Yes, we have really big heads. Thanks Aunt Becki (truly the ultimate younger sister and where Kathleen surely got her irreverent spirit).

As for Aunt Lynda (the oldest and somehow a kindred spirit to me in that way) I could go on and on about the ways our folksinger-pianist-organist-artist-whipsmart-eloquentlyspoken-beautiful Aunt Lynda has influenced us as a super creative figure in our lives – but at this moment I only have one thing to say:

How come Kathleen doesn't write letters like that about me?

My Mom Is Me

This is our mom. My mom. Sometimes it's hard to look at her pictures, because it's like looking at me.

But for some reason frizzy hair looks totally badass on her.

Like most moms of my time she was a little bit hippie,

a whole lot square,

of course a "Sadie, Sadie married lady..." (er, named Wanda)

and a mom.

Who in hindsight was a complete looker,

that could rock her some plaid.

Besides my affinity for plaid, I believe I am so like my mom it's sometimes hard to even describe her without feeling odd, or like there's a lump in my throat.

But when I actually try to think of the ways we're similar, all the big stuff comes up opposites:

Mom: Is like Mary Poppins. She can teach a toddler to read by snapping her fingers and has buckets of patience that she magically pulls out of her carpetbag of tricks. I mean, it's all. About. The kids. Not like "save the children." Oh no, her mom-now-turned-super-grandma love is reserved only for our clan, sorry, none to spare. We're just totally self-centered that way. But you can spend the night and she'll probably make you some homemade chocolate chip cookies.

Me: I know all the songs from Mary Poppins. I sing to my kids and read them stories. But I'm also pretty sure that I may have told my six year old that Ms. Poppins and the chimney sweep, Burt, have an "open relationship," meanwhile I had to train my two-year old to watch TV because he was getting to be seriously high-maintenance. So self-centered part? Check. Will I, or have I ever, made cookies from scratch? Not so much.

Mom: Is completely happy... like, all the time. She is the most content person, ever. She doesn't judge or nag or have unrealistic expectations. She's not like a creepy Stepford mom or a robot. I mean she gets pissed and annoyed, but it's not like a daily thing.

Me: I get pissed and annoyed literally every hour on the hour. What really sucks is when I get pissed and annoyed at my mom while she's perfectly content, patient, happy, and oh... you know, like teaching my kids to read and making us cookies at the same time. Kathleen is also really good at this.

Mom: A total tomboy. Who used to surf and play sports and apparently wore bikinis in the middle of the day on the couch.

Me: Unquestionably an "inside girl." Who just now is getting okay with the idea of wearing a bikini, like on the beach, but would prefer a nice TV blanket and some quality time with my DVR while I'm on the couch. Although I will say my mom has become quite the DVR hoarder as of late, she has some serious inventory cached on that sucker. Plus, our mother literally reads like five to six books a week, all while watching at least a dozen shows and one or two movies for good measure.

Mom: A working, professional person who does her job well, but then clocks out at the end of the day and never looks back.

Me: A working professional person who does her job well, clocks out at the end of the day and then wakes up in the middle of the night completely freaked out about, pick one: a deadline, a concept, a presentation, a client, an irrational fear that there is a rat in the bed and I have to run to the bathroom on my tippy-toes because it's nipping at my heels. This last one is actually a night terror that I have woken up from panting and leaning against the locked bathroom door after I've barricaded myself in... in my sleep. Um, yeah, sleepwalking runs in our family big-time... and we did not get it from my peaceful ear-plug and night-mask wearing mother. No, we got that from our crazy dad. Yeah, it apparently kept him out of Vietnam.

But there are the things that are the same. Things I've gotten from my mom like my height. My voice. My tendency to cry during any movie, or show, or commercial if given a proper bit of soundtrack and some good timing. My appetite for escapism, with a suspension of disbelief that turns on the moment I open the first page of a book, watch the lights dim in a movie theatre or hear the first few notes of my favorite show's opening credits.

My completely naive belief that everything is always going to be safe and good and that we'll all always be whole.

My tunnel-vision to all things family.