My mother's daughter

When did I become my mother? More importantly, when did becoming my mother turn into a source of pride instead of a dreaded event?

As teenagers we all swore, usually at the top of our lungs “I’ll never be like you!” There was no worse imaginable fate than turning into Mom.

We spent our teen years doing everything possible to distance ourselves from Mom. We struggled to develop our own identities; we rebelled against anything that we believed Mom would approve of.

Fast forward a decade. Married and in my own home I had Mommy on speed dial. How do I make the gravy for Thanksgiving? How do I get homeowners insurance? Are men physically incapable of getting socks into the laundry basket?

Suddenly, my mother who knew absolutely nothing about life when I was 17 turned into my own personal Martha Stewart.

When I became a Mother myself, I realized I was in way over my head. Once again my speed dial button saw daily action. “Mommy, my baby has a little stumpy thing and it fell off in the tub, HELP!!” Convinced I broke my new baby, my first reaction was to call home. When I was 17 and in trouble…I was more willing to ask the homeless guy on the corner for help than to admit I needed my mom.

My daughter asked me the other day why I won’t put the bananas on top of the fridge. The only answer I could come up with was “Because that’s how my mom did it.” It’s the same reason I put soap into the washing machine water before I add the clothes. Someday my daughter will do the same.

We learn to be mothers by first being daughters. We also learn to be daughters by first being mothers. During the teen years when I tried to pretend my mom didn’t exist, her lessons still took root in my heart. I learned what being a mother means. I learned to give without receiving; I learned to appreciate a smile, a hug, a drawing. I learned to listen without judging. Having daughters has taught me how to be one myself. I see now who my mother was. I see what she did for me. I’ve learned that who I am, is only because I was lucky enough to be my mothers daughter.


When I look down, I see my mothers’ hands. Strong, a little beat up, a little wrinkled. They look like the hands that taught me to tie my shoes. The same slender fingers that ran through my hair when I cried on her shoulders. When I braid my daughters’ hair, I see my past and I see her future. Someday my daughter will become me. Hopefully I will have passed to her the same things my mother gave to me. Strength, Hope, Determination, Love, Acceptance and Guidance.

By the way, bananas turn brown too quickly on the top of the fridge. I called my mom and asked.