The other day as I grabbed a handful of nuts (no, no – not that kind of nuts) and tossed them into my mouth (still not that kind of nuts), I wondered when, exactly, I started to like nuts (edible nuts! oh jeez, I’m making it worse).

When I was a kid, I hated nuts (this is going downhill…). Almonds, walnuts, pecans, cashews, pistachios… gross. Peanut butter good… peanuts bad. I’m still not a fan of walnuts unless they’re buried in fudge or brownies, but all the other nuts… yum! (Yummy nuts. Wow.)

Whenever Mom took us out for ice cream, she’d get pistachio or butter pecan. Ew. I did not want nuts contaminating my ice cream. (Ha!) I always got coffee ice cream (foreshadowing my future as a coffee junkie?)… with chocolate jimmies (we called them jimmies… not sprinkles… guess where I’m from?). Today, I love pistachio ice cream. And butter pecan. (Oh, coffee is still my favorite.) I hated nuts. Now I love them. (And my spot in hell is already reserved.)

As I’ve grown up (which clearly never reached completion), I’ve noticed other changes – changes not related to nuts.

Mom used to tell us to be cautious with our money. Don’t go all crazy shopping. I’m sure this was a struggle for her, being thrifty by nature, trying to convince four daughters not to buy those shoes… or those jeans… or that music. For years now, I’ve agonized over every spending decision, no matter how small. At times, I drive myself a little crazy, unable to decide if I should spend even $5 on something not 100% necessary in my life. (Unfortunately, my husband is the opposite – spend now, regret later. Or maybe don’t regret ever…)

During my teenage years, I spent an embarrassing amount of time talking on the phone. Mom was never on the phone for more than a couple of minutes at a time. She didn’t enjoy it, and she never understood how I could possibly have that much to talk about with my friends. Thinking back, I don’t understand either. I hate talking on the phone. I avoid it as much as humanly possible.

I’m not sure what took me so long to realize that my propensity for worrying is genetic. Mom is a worrier. I was, too, and it’s grown to unhealthy levels as I’ve aged. I’m sure worrying is a natural part of being a parent. But I know I worry more than I should. Just like Mom. I also never thought I’d be the softie with my kids that my mom was with us. But I am. I’m totally the pushover. If I ever try to punish my kids, 95% of the time, I fold and dismiss the punishment before it even starts. Kind of like Mom.

The rumors are true. I have turned into my mother.

Is this a phenomenon for men, too? Do they turn into their dads? Or their moms? I have some obvious traits, physical and otherwise, from my dad. But I’ve always had those. Becoming Mom happened much later.

And… now I have to deal with the fact that I just wrote about nuts and my mother in the same post.