My mom is an awesome mom. She is sweet and kind and funny and brilliant. There are worse people that one could morph into, such as Shahrazad Ali (I will never stop hating you, Shazzy) or whatever person Sammy Sosa’s new face should be called. But that doesn’t make it much easier to cope with.

I was most recently reminded of this as I screamed out my boyfriend’s name (not in the fun way). It was in the very same key of “You need to wash these dishes” that Mommy would use to summon me.

“You have to find a new way to say my name,” he replied.

I often look at The Beau and my friends with that same critical eye that my mom used to examine me: Are you dressed warm enough? Where’s your umbrella? Are we sure that outfit matches? Did you eat anything today?

I can’t help it. I just need them to be okay. And warm. And fed. That’s normal, right?

My mother’s logic and reason is seeping into my internal dialog more and more each day. I suppose she programmed me well. Whoever sold her that Jedi mind trick she bought to do that  is owed a letter of gratitude.

If I have gone this far now, what’s going to happen when I’m actually a mother myself? Someone please tell Future Baby Milah that I apologize in advance for sending her to school in two pairs of tights, but that I just don’t want her to be cold, okay?

Dear readers, have you seen your parents’ behavior seep into your daily life? How so? And how are you coping? Speak!

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