Let me tell you a little story about my mom. She often shares the tale of how she bowled the best game of her life just hours before I made my grand entrance into the world. A questionable choice, right? (And let’s not even touch on the whiskey sour she casually admitted to enjoying during her pregnancy—save that for another day.) To this day, I still proudly hold onto the “Most Improved Bowler” trophy she won. It’s a striking little piece, standing just four inches tall on a marble base, topped with a silver figurine of a graceful lady in a skirt—bowling, of course.
As luck would have it, the microwave was also invented that very week, and my mom managed to snag one of the first models ever made. This colossal appliance was about three feet long and two feet wide, making quite the entrance into our home when I was a newborn. It was so loud and powerful that it dimmed the lights whenever you used it. That beast of outdated technology remained in our lives until my sister finally bought my mom a new one around the year 2000. I was 27 at the time.
Honestly, appliances aren’t meant to last that long, and having that microwave around during my formative years is honestly a little frightening. Sure, I’d love to blame my questionable life choices on my habit of resting my forehead against it while watching my food cook, but my sister did the same—and she’s now a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist. So, no luck there.
We tried to buy my mom a replacement sooner, but you simply don’t know my mother. Not only did she adamantly refuse to part with that relic, but she also made it clear that she would not tolerate a replacement. My sister had to sneak the new microwave into the house when my mom wasn’t looking. I’m pretty sure my mom shed tears when she saw that shiny digital version. And believe me, those weren’t tears of joy. Picture a nine-year-old losing a beloved family pet and trying to replace it with a bunny—that’s the look on my mother’s face.
The microwave wasn’t our only ancient appliance, though. Our TV was legendary in its own right. Remember when electronics were also considered furniture? Brilliant! Why make something compact and efficient when it can be a massive, non-functional piece of woodwork? Our TV sat just five inches off the ground, mounted on a swivel base, and the screen was a whopping 40 inches. The wooden enclosure was a three-and-a-half-foot cube. We got that behemoth in 1978 when we moved to California, and my mom didn’t part with it until we flat-out refused to help her move it to Florida in 2003. Only one button on the remote worked—the channel-up button. Just imagine the frustration of cycling through 52 channels to find the one you want. It was maddening, but not maddening enough to get us off the couch.
Even now, my mom brings up that TV. After much convincing, we finally got her to leave her 300-pound soulmate behind when moving. She gifted it to a tenant, and she’s still furious that it’s functioning perfectly in his living room. I ran into him during a visit to San Jose, and guess what? He still has that TV and claims it’s the best one he’s ever owned. It truly did have a great picture and an interesting feature that allowed you to swivel it from the living room to the dining room.
Now, as for my electronics, I held onto my first Mac PowerBook way longer than I should have. Honestly, a 27-year-old microwave and a nine-year-old laptop are quite similar. I didn’t dare turn that computer off for three years out of fear it wouldn’t turn back on. Seriously. I also skipped software updates because, you know, those can carry viruses. Apple doesn’t want their products lasting that long, does it? If you ever unplugged it, you’d have to wrestle with the power cord for five minutes to get it working again. Why did I wait so long to buy a new one? Genetics, clearly. I’m wired to squeeze every last bit out of anything that plugs into a wall.
Fast forward to 2012—I still had a Sony 32-inch box TV that my mom gifted me back in 1998. It was old and massive, and my friends loved to tease me about it. Then, one day, my husband surprised me with a flat-screen TV set up in the living room. Sure, the picture was stunning, but wasn’t it a little too clear? Everyone looked a bit haggard, right? I appreciated it, but deep down, I missed my old TV. It may have been outdated, but it had character.
Lying in bed that night, I was genuinely troubled by the thought of my old reliable sitting neglected in the corner. I realized then that it wasn’t just about the object itself; it was about the memories and the comfort it provided. This is what growing older feels like—holding onto cherished memories tied to items from our youth. Who would want to let go of those?
In the end, my husband’s flat-screen ended up in his office for a few years while my beloved TV remained in the living room until I was finally ready to say goodbye. You know, they just don’t make things like that anymore.
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In summary, as I navigate through the experiences of parenthood and life, I can’t help but see the echoes of my mother in my choices—and sometimes, that’s a comforting realization.
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