In my last post I wrote about Meg’s realization (or another step in the process of that realization) that she doesn’t share my genes. Healthwise, she will find that a blessing in later years. But for now, I shouldn’t have been surprised. All I have to do is think back to my own childhood.
I didn’t look like my parents. I remember being asked rather frequently if I was adopted. (I wasn’t.) Because of the way recessive genes work, dark-haired parents can have light-haired children, although two light-haired parents cannot have dark-haired children. Ditto for eye color—brown is dominant, blue is recessive. (Nobody in our family can figure out how hazel eyes work, although at least three of us have them. ) I have light hair and eyes. My parents and sisters have dark hair. One sister has brown eyes and one has hazel.
One witty person couldn’t just ask if I was adopted. He said, “What trash heap did they find you on?” (This was a teacher, by the way.) I honestly don’t remember being upset. My mother and I both laughed. However, if someone said that to one of my kids I would not laugh!
My mother had always expressed envy at my blonde hair, blue eyes, and thin build. I think I felt rather special. There was one aunt and one cousin who had my coloring. I always felt a special affinity for them.
I remember my mother commenting that when she and my aunt (her sister) were thin, they didn’t look as much alike, but when they gained weight, they began to look alike as their faces rounded.
I began gaining weight at thirteen. I remember my mother, greatly frustrated, trying to get me to appreciate that this was serious (as if I didn’t already).
“Do you want to grow up to look like me?” she practically screamed.
I was silent, but deep inside I remember pausing and thinking, “Yes!”
Logically, I like my appearance and my health better when I’m not overweight. I suppose I could explore with a counselor whether there are deep-seated reasons I sabotage my diet to be like my mother. Or it could just be that I have a sweet tooth and had to stop exercising after a couple of injuries.
I don’t really need to know the reason. For now, I can just focus on the fact that I want to be healthier for my children. Also, I can use those old feelings to better empathize with my daughters.
Please see these related blogs:
Walking the Mother-Daughter Tightrope (1)