I look like her and that’s okay for she was an attractive woman but pray that in no way do I act like her.

If I’d answered that question 20 or 30 years ago, I’d have emphatically said “no!” But as I’ve gotten older I can appreciate our similarities. Political opposites, poles apart esthetically and spiritually, my mother and I nevertheless shared something deep and indestructable. Because my father died in his sixties, my mother learned to fend for herself, to make financial and real estate decisions - all the responsibilities she’d shared with my father. She was fiesty and independent but vulnerable and sensitive, too. Those qualities were our meeting ground and, at the same time, the sources of our differences. Some of our most personal “conversations” took place after she’d had a devastating stroke that robbed her of her power of speech. I’d sit with her and we’d “talk”- she with her eyes and her gestures and I with my words and tears. Sometimes on Saturday mornings I wake up thinking, “I’ve got to call Mom and tell her about…” and then I remember that she’s gone. So I just talk to her with my thoughts …it’s an ongoing relationship.

Mom (the wonderful Margie) passed away 6 years ago come July. Her birthday was just in April and here it is, Mother’s Day upon us. Plus, I was born on Mother’s Day and that was always a special bond between us. I think of her daily, for all those reasons, and more. When I meet family and friends of family whom I have not seen in awhile, their first greeting is “Oh, you’re looking more like your mother every day”. There was a time when my initial reaction was “Yeah, that’s not quite the look I’m going for”. But you can’t fight genetics and now I say, “Thank You”, for it is a wonderful thing. And, yes, I really mean that. She was a single mother raising 3 kids on a nurses wages in Hollywood in the 50’s and 60’s. Courage? In spades. Better to divorce my Dad and make it on our own than try and tame a man who was not ready for fatherhood. I know it scared the hell out of her because she told me so. But she did it anyway. And she never, NEVER, said a bad word about my Dad, knowing that we were a part of him, too, and how that would make us feel. Aside from the usual rebellious teenage daughter vs. mother who didn’t understand scenario, once I hit my late teens and moved out, it was ALL good. We talked and talked about all kinds of things. And that there, folks, is the key word: talked. Once I was of an age, she listened. And told me plainly, well, I don’t agree with your decision (moving in with a boyfriend, not going to college) but it is YOUR decision to make, along with the consequences. No lectures, no nagging, nada, zip, zilch. She let me make my mistakes and learn from them - and was ALWAYS there to comfort me when there were pieces to pick up. In that way I have strived to be the same for my daughters and I thank Mom every day for illuminating a road that was not always so easy to follow but led to such a peaceful place. Happy Mothers Day, Mom, I know you can hear me because you always could. And I don’t think that death can ever change that. I am still your favorite youngest daughter, and the more I am like you the happier I will be.

Wow! It has been very apparent to me for the past year or two that I am indeed turning into my mother. I’ve even said it aloud at times and it amazes me each time I’m struck by the thought. It scares me at times as there are traits that I fight so hard against adopting and yet other times, it comforts me; my mother was very practical and wise in many ways. I realize I’ve been using the past tense but my mom is still alive; it’s just that the woman whom I used to talk to at length every day for years and years, disappeared a few years ago into the haze that we call Alzheimers. I get it. It’s Mothers’ Day on Sunday and that’s why we’re chatting about this. I used to believe Mom could think or do no wrong. Then for a few years, I began to question and attempt to reject every thing that she was. The last couple of years I’ve focused on what life was really like for her, the limitations that she faced and some of the amazing, wonderful things that she did. I love her. Mom turned 86 in January and I turned 46 last year; yes, I was born just two months short of her 40th birthday. She won’t be with me much longer. I might have been a very different kind of woman if I’d had a very different mother; accepting her is part of accepting who I now am.

I love my mother so much that it makes me cry to think of the day I won’t be able to hear her refined, calm voice on the other end of the line. She has always been a cool, elegant, emotionally self-contained, extremely competent, head turning blonde…but not a showboat in any sense. She has a trained operatic voice, has been consistently perfect and disciplined her entire life. She probably weighs the same as she did at 18. We had a very large home that was run to absolute perfection. I have never seen her flustered, have never seen her rushed or unkempt in anything, never heard her raise her voice or curse. She says little but it’s always precise and perfect. She has excellent values and genuine character, is very kind, truly generous about all people, and she has excellent taste in everything. We are alike in how much we love each other, her mother, and my son…how much all of us love beauty, order, books, music, flowers, perfectly prepared food, etc. I am different from the three of them in that I am outgoing and outspoken, while they are quiet and reserved. I have been a street-fighter in a white Chanel suit, while they had their lives filled in different ways. My mother is a true lady, where I can appear ladylike. There’s a big difference. Wish I had many more of her good traits, but where I lack those…am more actively creative, risk taking, nothing phases me. My mother is a much more of a delicate flower. I am incredibly blessed that I had the perfect mother, grandmother and son. And wish I could do everything for them.

Yes. In good ways and in bad ways but not in all ways.

When I failed as a child to account for my mom’s narcissism, my dad would say, “But if you look half as good at 20 as your mother does at 40, you’ll be lucky.” Well, I do look like a much younger version of her, because I stayed out of the sun my whole life and she’s been tanning with baby oil for 40 years. But the most important thing is, I learned to be a decent person and I try hard not to inflict my pain on my own daughter. There is no suitable Mother’s Day card to buy when your mom made it clear from earliest memory that you were incidental. My MIL of 18 years has been a better mother to me than my mother ever was, and though she is a big pain in the ass, it was simple to select a loving card for her.

I first became aware that I was changing into my mother when I was in a department store dressing room trying on summer shorts and saw my mother’s knees hanging out of them - an instant flashback to seeing her in shorts when she was about 50. I thought to myself at that time, “MO-ther, you shouldn’t wear shorts with your knees so wrinkled.” And I laughed when I remembered that but bought the shorts anyway. (Denial, of course). Over the years I can see my eyelids getting as baggy as hers were. I get the big red bruises on my arms as easily as she did — and oh, how she hated them. (Me too!) That’s about all the physical attributes we shared over our lifetimes. But I also hear her wisdom, advice and encouragements coming out of my mouth, both to my kids and my grandkids. My girls were very close to their grandmother — they called her “Maa Maa” — and often when I say things they’ll respond, “Mom, you sound just like Maa Maa.” So it’s not all bad to end up being like one’s mother if one’s mother was like mine, baggy knees notwithstanding.

I lost my mother 41 years ago. Am I becoming like her? I don’t know - because being the youngest of seven kids and her a single-working mother I never really got to know her personally. But I do remember wonderful things and have always said I would be happy if I could be half the woman my mother was. I remember the laughter when there was no money - the dancing with a broomstick when there was time for fun - the helping of everyone that she could help, our door was always open - I remember not going to church but always knowing God - I remember the safe, warm feel of being held in soft bosoms. Am I turning into my mother? One can only hope.