Getting Started.

For the final decade or so of my parents' lives, Dad called Mom "the General." If I were truly kind I would say the nickname was a reflection of Mom's commanding presence, or her take-charge attitude. I would relate one of her comrade's observations that when duty called, Mom would marshal her posture in such a way as to make her seem like a giant marching into battle to stop whatever mayhem might be breaking out down the hall.

No doubt Mom was effective at being, well, Mom. But that wouldn't lay any groundwork for Nana's Furrowed Brow. No character development. It wouldn't establish any base for how I got this way.

And, it wouldn't be true.

No, Dad called Mom the General because she'd sit on her duff and bark out orders and directions for even the most mundane tasks. Like putting groceries away. Or lighting a burner under the kettle.

"You want to turn the gas on... thaaaat's right..."

or

"Just put the milk in the fridge... thaaaaat's right..."

Saying "yes, General" was Dad's way of not saying "ohmygodI'vebeendoingallthegroceryshoppingandcookingsinceNineteenSeventyFrickinSeven.soHUSH."

On the oh-so-rare occasion that Dad would (accidentally?) refer to her as the General out loud and within earshot, what Mom would hear was "ohmygodI'vebeendoingallthegroceryshoppingandcookingsinceNineteenSeventyFrickinSeven.soSHUTUP."

All you could really do at that point was duck and cover.

Some years ago, during one of my parents' annual two-week visits, I promised myself (and my husband) I would never become my mother. The incident that made me want to carve the promise in stone and sign it in blood followed a really terrific July 4th barbecue. A dozen or so friends, tons of homemade salads and breads; a giant red, white, and blueberry cake, flowing wine and beer, illegal fireworks, and the coup-de-grace, my husband's glazed ham, done up and dripping with brown sugar on the barbecue. After the guests left, I invited my parents to relax and let me take care of my messy, sticky kitchen. They chose the kitchen table as their relaxing spot, which shouldn't have been an issue until Mom started offering helpful tips like "run a little water into that" and "oh, that will need some soap." The advice came in a barrage; rat-at-tat-tat missiles of gems like "there might be meat stuck between those tines," and "wrap that in foil."

I smiled graciously the few times I turned around to face her while she offered her sage advice, until something inside me went *boink* when it was suggested that I save the ham bone for pea soup. I turned and smiled again, but it must have come across more like bared teeth, because Mom dropped her tissue on the table as if it were being dismissed, and huffed "well, I guess she doesn't want to make pea soup."

I exploded. My internal editor packed up and left for the evening as I went off on how I love to make pea soup. That I make the best damn split pea soup I've ever had. I spewed how it was better, in fact, than hers. I mused with a cynicism that laid bare my New York roots on how it was a miracle that I'd made through 15 years of marriage, motherhood, and my own home without her telling me to run a little water into a dirty pot; how a spot of soap will take grease off a plate; to wrap leftovers before refrigerating them; and above all, don't run with scissors.

I know it's hardly a unique promise, and one that's broken more often than not, but with my half-century mark on the horizon, and with another generation on the way, I think I might make it.

I just want my grandchildren, and anyone else who matters, to know that if Nana's brow is furrowed, odds are it's got nothing to do with them unless they've painted my cat or dressed my Frankenstein figure in Barbie's Kimono. I want them to know that, for the most part, Nana files stuff under the broad label "shit happens and then you fix it or move on," and the furrow is no different than an activity light on a hard drive. Working. Working. The data has processed, and the result is "meh, whatever."