On Becoming My Mother

My mother watches me as I dab tinted moisturizer on her face. The full face makeup of younger years has been replaced by cosmetic minimalism. Strong lipcolor has been tossed aside, a lightly tinted gloss in its place. Her salt and pepper hair color is now her preferred shade. Watching my mother’s transformation from youth to midlife and beyond has been, and will likely continue to be my blueprint without even realizing it. We strive to NOT be our mothers for a variety of reasons as we age. But the inevitable is, well, inevitable. The face in the mirror is mine.

Midlife so far has been a good gig but I still feel there’s a larger task I haven’t completed. A legacy. Not just mine, but that of my mother and all the women before me in my family. We ponder but don’t always add to the journeys of the past that, through no fault of their own, could not be easily recorded. These ladies worked hard, endured hardships and often couldn’t or wouldn’t speak up.

Like my mother, growing up I was quiet, obedient and avoided confrontation. Her Victorian era parents instilled that in her and we were parented similarly – a painful handicap in a new world. The necessity of assertiveness counseling in my twenties was a foothold but I really didn’t start barking back until my thirties. Anesthesia training – communication bootcamp – was a liberating turning point for me. I realized I had a voice and it mattered. I admit I still had wobbly knees (old habits die hard) but layers of self-doubt started melting away. My mother was a big cheerleader for my newfound courage and voice. Her strict parents, after all, had refused her a nursing education and the freedom for any of the children to fully express themselves. Living vicariously through my journey helped her achieve, albeit tangentially, the satisfaction of being heard. A generations-old mold was now not only fractured but completely shattered as I brought our voices into the world. I’d like to think my female ancestors would be proud.

It is my hope that my two daughters will continue this strength journey for their own sake as well as their historical female kin. I of course will be THEIR cheerleader and hope that with basic manners (and hopefully some tact) they will embrace their lives with the courage and freedom to be who they are. That’s the greatest gift we can give our kids – the support and acceptance to be who they were meant to be.