“Well one thing’s for sure,” he said chuckling through his tears. “You certainly inherited the battle axe gene”.
I laughed too and with that we made up again.
It was probably our biggest fight ever.
I threatened to leave him.
Again.
I changed my mind in the end.
Again.
I really laid into him that night. I don’t ever remember screaming so loud and so long at a person ever before in my life.
It was official.
I’d turned into my mother.
Turning into my mother was something I swore I wouldn’t do since as long as I can remember. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mommy
. I love her like cooked food. But, after careful observation of her less desireable traits and her track record when it comes to relationships I felt it would behoove me to try not to be like her.
But in spite of that very concious effort, I ended up with more of her traits than I care to admit.
For instance, I pride myself on being a cool and collected person. One whose feathers are not so easily ruffled. One who gets her point across without yelling (I really hate to be yelled at) and arguing (and I hate to argue). One who does not resort to physicality to express her frustration. One who communicates her anger in a constructive way. And for the most part I am all of these things.
But catch me on the wrong day (the wrong day is usually a day where I am experiencing the dangerous combination of fatigue and prolonged stress mixed with hormonal fluctuations) and mommy dearest rears her ugly heard.
My sister and I have joked that both our mother and grandmother are “battle axes”. I made that observation to my (now ex) boyfriend a couple of times, and according to him the apple doesn’t fall far.
I yell. Especially when I’m frustated and feel like I’m not being listened to (which really makes no sense because it’s a surefire way to not get yourself heard). I sometimes use sarcasm to say what I want to say instead of just saying it. I employ the silent treatment. I sit on my feeligs way too long until they build up into something bigger and more volatile than they need to be. And although I pretty much never start arguments, I don’t always wave the white flag either.
Oh, and ocsasionally I hit (hey, find me a Caribbean woman who doesn’t). More out of frustration than out of an actual desire to inflict pain.
These are all the things I observed about my mother that I swore would not end up as part of my personality. But I guess you can’t really help it much.
The battle axe gene certainly seems to be a dominant one.
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Sounds like the best fights could end quite nicely.
I think the Battle Axe Gene is an expression/adaptation, best left to spanking fetisher’s & Neo-Darwinist’s…Ummm..Could be fun, aye?
x,Will
“bottomsUp”
@Will. Yea and there was a rather interesting incident involving a whip and a chocolate pen.
But that is a whole other post. =)
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