Jill's Journal: The realization of ‘I’m becoming my mother’

There comes a time in nearly every woman’s life when she looks in the mirror and realizes something rather frightening: She’s becoming her mother.

For years, I’ve seen the writing on the wall, or in this case, my mother in the mirror.

But it’s not just in looks. It’s all facets of my life.

For instance, I find myself thinking like my mother, doing things like she did.

Take for instance, I routinely wash out perfectly good plastic Ziplock bags so I can use them again.

My mom came from an era that you didn’t simply toss it into the garbage if it still had a little life left in it.

So, why throw away a perfectly good plastic bag when it could be washed, dried and put back in the drawer for another day?

As a kid, I rolled my eyes at the very thought. As an adult, I now understand. That bag still has work to do.

My mom passed away five years ago, but still pops into my thoughts. Sometimes it’s because something reminds me of her. Other times, it’s because I catch myself doing something and realize, Oh my gosh. I’m turning into my mother.

Years before Mom passed away, she told me she wanted her bread pans to go to me. This may seem silly to some, but she knew how much I loved fresh-baked bread and the loaves that her well-seasoned bread pans turned out for decades. 

When I would go there for a weekend visit, I often hauled out the bread pans. Now, before you get too impressed, let me clarify that we weren’t making bread from scratch. We didn’t measure flour, proof yeast or knead dough. Instead, we relied on frozen loaves of dough, plunked them into the bread pans and let them do their thing.

Hours later, those little frozen lumps of dough became beautiful, golden loaves of bread.

And oh, the smell. There is something magical about the smell of fresh-baked bread.

Maybe that’s why those bread pans mean so much to me. They aren’t just bread pans. They are a little piece of Mom one slice at a time.

I’ve been told for years that I look a lot like my mother. My usual response is, “Yep. I got her boobs, butt and gut.” I apparently got my Dad’s skin tone and his ability to tan, too, so there was at least a little genetic bargaining going on. I’m not sure how that particular tradeoff worked out, but I do enjoy a good summer tan. But of course, today’s health professionals would tell me to lather myself in sunscreen, so perhaps Dad’s tanning genes aren’t quite the gift I’ve always thought they were.

But looking like Mom isn’t really what makes me feel like I’m becoming her. It’s the little things. It’s the way I think. The things I value. The things I find myself doing without even realizing it.

Mom loved to laugh.  So do I.

She enjoyed a cocktail with friends. So do I.

She knew church was important.  So do I.

She understood the importance of friends, family and simply enjoying the people around you. I’m trying to do that, too.

Maybe that’s what happens when we lose our parents. At first, we notice all the things we miss. Then, somewhere along the way, we begin noticing all the things they left behind in us.

A saying. A habit. A mannerism.  A recipe. A laugh. A stubborn streak. Or, in my case, a collection of plastic bags that have been washed and dried and are ready for their next assignment.

And maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Because becoming my mother means carrying a little bit of her forward. It means the woman who taught me to laugh is still making me laugh. The woman who baked bread with me is still filling my kitchen with the memory of its comforting smell. The woman who loved her friends, enjoyed a good cocktail and understood the importance of church is still influencing the way I live my life.

Now five years after her death, Mom isn’t here to tell me whether I’m doing it right, which by the way, she wasn’t shy about letting me know “that’s not the way” she would do it.

But every now and then, I catch myself doing something exactly the way she did. And I smile. Because maybe I’m not becoming my mother after all. Maybe she simply became a part of me a long time ago.

Although I still draw the line at saving every twist tie. At least for now, anyway.