Loughran 1

Kaitlin Loughran

Professor Andaluz

ENG 100

9 October 2021

Seeing Double

Progressive commercials are really catching up to me. I hadn’t thought much about them

when they first interrupted my rerun of X-Men: Days of Future Past. At the time, I was struck by

how someone from my generation could possibly find interest in Live, Laugh, and Love. The

“parentmorphosis” didn’t click at the time. Then, I started listening to myself.

My mom's name is Ramona; not Ramona Loughran or Ramona Taitano but Ramona

Taitano Loughran. She chose both names because she could. Why have one when you can have

both? Ramona is the feminine version of Ramone, meaning wise. It’s true, she’s very wise and

no, she did not tell me to put that in the essay. She has two Master’s degrees, was an electrical

engineer, was, at some point, a college professor, where she taught both math and science.

My mother's hair is auburn and curly. Her eyes are light brown like milk chocolate, and

freckles cover her Chamorro nose. Her contacts make her eyes darker but she argues that ours are

the same. She wears floral pattern dresses and bedazzled Croc flip-flops. Her obsession with

Disney is bordering on unhealthy. She might have passed that on to me. Don't tell her I said that.

My mother's very meticulous; If there's a speck of dust on the floor, she won't have it.

She has two Roomba's, Swifters, a mop, three brooms, and a wireless vacuum. She wipes the

counter six times a week. Supposedly, I get paid for doing the dishes. Emphasis on “supposedly”.
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When I was younger, if I had a flat A, she would throw a fit. She cares more about grades

than most other things. She cares about one thing more: the dishes. She hates it when the dirty

dishes are sitting there, begging to get cleaned. She hates it so much. Screw grades; look at that

dirty spoon. After that delightful upbringing, I can't look at a filthy kitchen without cringing.

"I'm done! I quit! I've got math to work on," I threw down the sponge in protest.

"But," she scampered over like a tall bunny that shopped at Old Navy. She examined the

bowls and plates that did not go in the dishwasher. "There are still dishes to be done," she said

innocently as if the words were not an order but a soft suggestion.

"And there's math to cry over, yet I'm standing here."

She squinted. "Wise-ass,"

I looked up, "Yes?"

She cackled and pointed at the dishes as she walked away. "Dishes!"

I sighed and looked at the bathroom where my brother had been hiding from the dishes

since she brought it up. It reminded me of the last time he did that and the time before that. She

turned on Jeopardy and clicked at the keys on her stone-age computer.

When there were dishes to be done I often scrubbed until the sink shined like the top of

the Chrysler building. It was stained yellow because of all the Kuerig coffee she and my father

dumped down it. Afterward, she’d give me some approving nods and then say that I could do the

rest tomorrow, repeat cycle. My brother got out of it half the time, he's quite the slacker.

A lot of my mom and I’s interactions have to do with cleaning, school, and TV.

Television is a gateway drug across the chasm between generations in my mom and me. She and

I watch everything, and I mean it when I say everything.

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There is no real system to bracket off what we do and don't watch and ye we're really

particular about what we want to watch. I told her the other day before I went to bed that I was

going to watch Batman, to which she said: “What? How can you watch Batman without me?” To

which I said “It’s animated,” and she rolled her eyes. If there’s no class, then there’s no point.

We have developed the same taste which is a little scary. I almost regret introducing her

to period dramas. Almost. My mom watches more mature shows like NCIS and Game of

Thrones, shows that I don't consider all that interesting. We have the same obsession with

color-matching too. I got it from her but now it’s evolved. I can’t wear mismatched clothes,

colors, or styles. I have an obsession with yellow just like she has an acute liking for red. I’ve

picked up all these little things from her too, like mumbling when I’m annoyed or adjusting my

clothes when I have nothing else to do.

Because my dad has been working more, I’ve been thinking about how much time I’ve

been spending with my mom. Too much time. I was already talking like her but now I’m starting

to laugh like her. I already have the same crow’s feet and smile lines. Not to be a carbon copy or

anything, but we have the same birthmarks too. To top it all off, everyone says I look like her.

Even my laugh is slowly turning into her laugh. Though I hate to admit it, my pale skin and my

hazel eyes are the only things making us look different these days.