“I can’t believe I’m sending my child to school dressed like a ragamuffin!”

“I am so perturbed right now, Ali, I’m going to sell you to the gypsies.”

“Do you know how many hours I have to work to pay for this closet full of clothing that you never wear?”

“I have been working like a slave all day!”

“Do not make me pull this car over!!!”

“Were you raised in a barn?”

“Because I said so!”

“If [insert friend name here] jumped off a bridge, would you do that too?”

“I have had it up to HERE!”

“You cannot go out with wet hair—you will catch a cold!”

—Ali’s mom, circa anywhere between 1978 and today.

I always laugh about the go-to Momisms. My mom isn’t just the person who fixes my bra straps, you know. She was the queen of the one liners!

Apparently, I was a cold-catching wet-haired ragamuffin who was getting sold to the gypsies. Also, I never wore any of my clothes—and I was clearly raised in a barn.

Sold to the gypsies?

Really?! Is that a thing? Did people actually get sold to the gypsies? I remember that once my mom told me that I had to change my outfit because I looked like Omar the Tentmaker, and I’m still—to this day—scratching my head over this one.

Omar? Is that you?

So, I laugh.

And yet.

I found myself sending Miss Isabella to school this morning in a green sundress, a pair of purple-flowered sandals, a giant orange headband, a too-small white cardigan, and a too-large polka dotted hoodie. Of course, at age 6, she is allowed her freedom of wardrobe, and so I don’t make too much of a fuss over what she chooses to wear.

And then, it just poured out of my mouth.

“I can’t believe I’m sending my child to school dressed like a ragamuffin!”

I guess I better brush up on my one-liners.

And figure out who the heck Omar the Tentmaker is…

Because, well, apparently I am my mother.