The Art of Falling Apart (With Style)

The day I realized I was becoming my mother, I was standing in the frozen foods section of Walmart, aggressively squeezing bags of peas. It wasn't even about the peas, really. But there I was, channeling her signature move: testing produce like it had personally wronged me.

"Ma'am," a teenager in a blue vest said, hovering nearby, "the peas are already dead."

I laughed, but it came out as more of a snort. Mom used to do that too – that weird hybrid sound between amusement and defeat. "Just making sure they're fresh," I said, immediately wanting to stuff the words back in my mouth. Fresh. Frozen peas. Christ.

The kid – Marcus, according to his nametag – raised an eyebrow with the kind of judgment only a sixteen-year-old can muster. "They're frozen."

"Listen, Marcus, when you've spent thirty-five years eating disappointingly freezer-burned vegetables, you develop trust issues." I dropped the bag into my cart, where it landed next to discount shampoo and the kind of cheap wine that comes with a twist-off cap. The holy trinity of a divorced woman's shopping cart.

"Thirty-five?" He glanced at my face, doing that subtle math thing people do when they're trying to figure out if you're lying about your age.

"Forty-two," I corrected, because honestly, who was I kidding? "But I started having vegetable-related trauma early."

That got a genuine smile out of him. "My mom's the same way with bananas. She's got this whole system about the exact right amount of spots they should have."

"Smart woman. Bananas are sneaky bastards." I started wheeling my cart away, then stopped. "Hey Marcus? Thanks for not calling security on the crazy pea lady."

"No problem. But maybe try the fresh produce next time? Less chance of disappointment."

I laughed – a real one this time. "Where's the fun in that?"

---

The thing about becoming your mother is that it doesn't happen all at once. It's more like a slow-motion invasion, like those nature documentaries where a parasitic fungus gradually takes over an ant's nervous system. One day you're a normal person who can walk past a slightly wilted houseplant without saying "Well, I guess we're both having a rough day," and the next you're anthropomorphizing produce in the middle of Walmart.

My sister Katie finds this hilarious, of course.

"You're not turning into Mom," she said over FaceTime that night, while I was cooking dinner. "Mom would never buy frozen peas. She'd grow them herself and then guilt us about not appreciating them enough."

"I caught myself deadheading the petunias yesterday while telling them they were doing their best."

"Okay, that's a little Mom-ish."

"A little? Katie, I'm one garden gnome away from full transformation."

She snorted – the family trait strikes again. "At least you haven't started collecting those creepy porcelain angels."

"Yet." I stirred the pasta sauce I was making, which was definitely not as good as Mom's. "Did I tell you David's getting married?"

The silence on the other end was brief but loaded. "Shit. Are you okay?"

"Oh yeah, I'm great. Nothing like your ex-husband marrying the woman he left you for to really put those self-help books to the test." I tasted the sauce. Definitely needed more... something. Mom would know what. "I got the invitation yesterday. It's very tasteful. Cream-colored cardstock, little gold flowers. Very 'we didn't mean to fall in love while you were taking care of your dying father.'"

"Jesus, Mae." Katie's voice got soft, the way it does when she's worried about me. "You don't have to be funny about it."

"Actually, I do. It's either jokes or arson, and I look terrible in orange."

"Mae..."

"I'm fine. Really." I turned down the heat under the sauce. "You know what's funny? I caught myself doing Mom's thing earlier – you know, where she lists all the ways something could be worse?"

"The 'at least' game?"

"Yeah. I was sitting there looking at the invitation, and I actually thought, 'Well, at least they didn't use Comic Sans.'"

Katie laughed, but it was gentle. "That's pure Mom energy right there."

"I know. Next thing you know, I'll be sending passive-aggressive care packages full of newspaper clippings about divorce rates and self-help books about finding love after forty."

"She means well."

"She always does." I sighed, looking at the sauce that would never be as good as Mom's. "You know what the really scary part is?"

"What?"

"I'm starting to think she might have been right about some things."

"Like what?"

"Like how you can't fix people. Like how sometimes love isn't enough. Like how frozen peas are never as good as fresh ones."

Katie was quiet for a moment. "You know what Mom would say right now?"

"At least we're learning?"

"At least we're learning."

We both laughed then, that weird snorting laugh we inherited along with our trust issues and our tendency to talk to plants. Because maybe becoming your mother isn't the worst thing that can happen to you. Maybe it's just another way of admitting that some battles were fought long before we came along, and some wisdom has to be earned the hard way, one bag of frozen peas at a time.

Besides, I'm pretty sure Mom was right about the peas. They really are better fresh.