My Sister And I Had Different Mothers
Yet we had the same mother
Recently, I was complaining to my older sisters about my adult son. He still lives at home and starts asking what’s for dinner as soon as he gets home from work. Keep in mind, this begins at about two in the afternoon. His nagging about dinner continues until we have dinner. His habit of doing this stresses me out.
My sister “reminded” me that our mother cooked us whatever we wanted. I stared at her blankly. I don’t remember my mother cooking unless we had company coming over. My sister’s guilt trip didn’t work for me at all.
Why? Because we don’t remember the same mother. Our mothers were the same person, but she didn’t mother us the same.
I was an oops baby. I always called myself the caboose kid. My siblings were seven, eight, and twelve years older than me.
When I was a kid, my mother worked full time, as did my dad. During my early years, I spent a lot of time being babysat by my older sisters. I stayed with my grandmother quite often, and we had a housekeeper who lived in for a few years when I was a baby. I don’t remember my mother taking care of me.
Now my father took care of me all of the time. I could crawl into his lap and get hugs. He let me ride in the car with him when he ran errands. We always…
