Like Mother, Like Daughter

I’m a lot like my mom.

As I get older I resemble her more and more; people start to recognize me just by knowing my mom.

We have similar personality traits, as well. For example, I’m very critical of others (especially my husband) and I’m awfully good at making people feel guilty for their choices. I’m also strict, judgmental, physically lazy, and good at shifting the blame.

Over the past few weeks -since I’ve started writing again -I’ve discovered a rising tide of resentment towards mom. I’m trying to feel it out, to really allow myself to have those feelings before I sift through them.

I feel the need to defend my mom, even in my thoughts. I deny that; after all, I do love my mom, but I’m figuring out that it’s okay to acknowledge feelings about someone that present them as less than perfect. It’s okay to see the flaws in someone and still love them. 

I pay close attention to what I say to my husband these days. I want him to feel loved, lifted up, encouraged, safe. For me that usually means not criticizing the way he puts away the dishes, or which way he parts his daughter’s hair, or how often he speaks with his mother on the phone. 

I remind myself that there are plenty of fathers out there who don’t wash dishes, much less put them away. Fathers who don’t comb their daughters hair or have relationships with their parents. 

I have asked myself many times why is talking to my husband so difficult sometimes; it’s something that has confused and frustrated me since we married. And now I think it’s because I’m a lot like my mother. 

That sounds to me a bit like shifting the blame (did I mention I’m good at that?) but I don’t mean it to. I don’t want to blame my parents for who I am, but I do want to know who I am, and that journey includes taking a closer look at those who influenced my life the most: my parents.

I can recall dad doing things with us, and for us, and the sound of my mother’s voice when she’d say he doesn’t do that for me, and feeling guilty that dad was somehow not treating her right.

I can remember cleaning the kitchen floor, on my hands and knees with a rag; polishing the countertops; scrubbing the dishes by hand; organizing the pantry and cupboards; clearing gunk off the stove; and when it came time for mom to see the beauty of my hard work, the anxiety that crippled my confidence as she pointed out all the things I’d missed.

I don’t remember mom coming into a room I had cleaned and praising my hard work, or even acknowledging it. I remember not feeling like I’d done a good enough job, though.

I don’t remember when I stopped trying to impress her, or when I stopped seeking her out to show her something I was proud of. I don’t know if she noticed.

It takes me hours to clean my house. I’m very particular about it, and I wonder now if it’s because of how I felt as a kid. 

My daughter helps out with little things. Every night before bed she is asked to put her toys and books away, to place her shoes in the bin, to bring her plate and fork to the kitchen for cleaning. A few nights ago I was scrubbing the wall behind the table, trying to erase a runaway splash of coffe that had made a mess of the white paint. She wanted to help and I almost said no because how could she help me? But instead I grabbed a rag and we sat on the floor together, not making much progress but having fun all the same. I’m such a good helper, mama she said to me as she “cleaned” and I couldn’t resist squeezing her and praising her hard work.

I try to acknowledge the things she does. I tell her she works hard, she’s smart, she’s beautiful, she’s brave. I sometimes worry that I don’t do this enough; then I worry that I do it too much and I’m building her up for disappointment; and then I think maybe I’m thinking about it too much. 

And I’m sure mom thought all those things too. 

It’s difficult to be a parent, sometimes. I know that, and I only have one child versus my mom’s nine. Being a parent means putting someone else first when maybe sometimes you don’t want to. 

I don’t blame my mother for being flawed, but I recognize that her flaws shaped me just as much as her virtues; becoming the me I want to be means feeling the things I wouldn’t let myself feel and then moving on.

So, right now, I resent her. I have a feeling it won’t last, and that’s what makes it feel okay.