Mother

In a woman's life there ultimately comes the awe-struck day in which she realizes she has turned into her mother. This day is far removed from the ones where she believed her mother was akin to some sort of superhero who knew the answer to all of life’s mysteries and could fix every problem with magic spit and a bandaid.

Neither does this day usually occur in the self absorbed pre-teen, teenage, or even college years, where the daughter finally becomes cognizant of the fact that she actually knows much more than the woman she idealized all this time; and if there is a superhero to be found, she, the much younger and indefensible daughter, would fit the criteria. And if there happens to be any likeness at all, it is simply the same surname that magically appears on the checks that pay for her car insurance each month.

At this point in her life, the daughter is often ferociously fighting the affinity to be like her mother, perhaps in an attempt to carve out her own identity, perhaps out of fear of becoming like mom. She promises herself she will never do what her mother did, say what her mother said, or become anything like her mother.

But, sooner or later, the fateful moment will occur...

It may be while at the beauty salon when getting that cute pixie cut that was all the rage in this week's issue of Glamour, that the resemblance finally hits her, and with tears welling in her eyes, she immediately inquires about extensions. Or it may be in the heat of passion, while wrestling a 2 year old on a NY subway train during a nap time temper tantrum; some words she promised she would never say to her own child, finally fall like acid from her lips, immediately burning a groove into her synapses, faintly reminiscent of her mother’s voice, taunting her like a broken record. Or it may come after she has married and put her career on hold to pursue the man of her dreams wherever his next job lands them, as she looks back on her mother’s life and succumbs to the fact that she is knee-deep in those footsteps she swore she would never follow...

Or in the worst of circumstances, it may be while packing her mother’s old belongings- a woman taken by cancer. A daughter, lost in a sea of her mother's clothes and old photographs, searching wildly for a scent or a small freckle that matches her own; she studies her face for any resemblance that will keep her mom, here with her.

Whether we bemoan it or embrace it, the moment holds a special place. It's a space where we are simultaneously faced, in the same breath, with our mother’s frailty and our own. Long before, having been hit across the head with our mother’s imperfections, we are now struck by our own faults, our own humanity. It’s a moment where the smallness of our lives, how minute we are within the universe, seems overwhelming. The actuality that we will probably never accomplish everything we set out to do as children comes barreling toward us, and we long for nothing more than to crawl up into that warm lap where platitudes are free and magic spit is plenty.

It’s also a moment of immense freedom, if we’re lucky. We begin to see this woman who birthed us, raised us, and put up with all of our bullshit, with fresh eyes. She is a woman, just like we - human, imperfect, original. She has an identity that goes far beyond that of our mother. She is: Artist. Entrepreneur. Author. Courage. Vulnerability. Lover. Beloved. Imperfect. Whole. Striving. Dreamer. Seeker. Protector. Beauty. Child of God...Friend.

That last one hits me personally, pretty hard...Friend. It wasn’t until I stopped fighting to be anything like her, that I could start to see the true value in who she was/is as a human being. She is one of the few people with whom I’m unafraid to broach any subject (probably a little to her annoyance at times). But she’s there discussing... politics, religion, family, pop culture. Agreeing. Disagreeing. Both of us knowing at all times, that unconditional love is present, no matter what is said.

Don’t get me wrong. There are still some things about my mother that drive me up the wall. But there is a masterpiece standing before me. And like a connoisseur studying a fine work of art, I am beginning to pull out and reflect on traits from this invaluable mosaic.

I envy her piss and vinegar attitude concerning the opinions of others - she could care less what they think of her. I value her willingness to be open to new ideas. She is completely giving. I could not have made it through my pregnancy without her self-sacrifice. My mother is beautiful. When I growup, I want to be just like her, again...well, barring a few minor details.

In fact, just the other day, now past the shock and tears from the pixie cut fiasco, I asked my mom to send a picture of one of her haircuts in her younger years. “You know, the really hot one,” I added. Hell, if I can’t beat looking like her, no reason not to join her...the best version of her, that is.

Written by Tracy Medberry © 2011