My sister and I have an ongoing competition - who is turning out to be more like mum… fortunately she’s currently in the lead, but as I hear my own daughters sounding just like their grandmother - who they don’t see that often - I realise that I am a big part of her. The trick is disgarding the bits that drive me mad and hanging on for dear life to those traits that I most admire in her. Not easy when it’s in the genes…

Probably, I caught myself saying something to her today which she usually says to me. We sound exactly the same on the telephone and there were many embarrassing moments when men would be calling me and get my mother. Not detecting the difference in our voices there was many a time when mom’s face would blush as she softly explained that she would be glad to call me to the phone. Another thing I know has been passed down through several generations…my grandmother, mother, and I are/were all clothes horses. We shop out of need, desire, frustration and pure entertainment. We all shared each others clothes. My mom and I still do. When my grandmother died she wasn’t at her normal weight and we were at a loss to find her an appropriate dress. It turned out that I had her favorite kelly green St. Johns knit hanging in my closet just as my mom had it before me. So it seemed only natural that we use it, thus bringing it full circle. If I have turned into my mother, I hope I have morphed the good parts. My mom is very caring to her friends, isn’t afraid to speak her mind, and she loves to dance. You gotta love to dance!

I am offering a short poem, perhaps two, to speak to this topic. Of course, we all compete with our Mothers, try to avoid their weaknesses, try to move beyond them, ultimately forgive them, and, in many ways, we are our mothers. I find myself saying things that my mother said that annoyed me, such as “hope deferred.” She was born in 1899. Now, before mother’s day, I am drawing objects of memory, such as her glasses frames to honor her and revere the connections. This is my truth I tell you no other I wear a mask I have a cover. This is my truth I tell you no other I miss my Father I am my Mother.

My mum was five feet 8 inches , I’m five foot three.She was compared to Marilyn Monroe. She was shy, had low self-esteem, except when it came to her cubs and anyone who she felt was being treated unfairly. I think that’s where my feistiness ccomes from. She also taught me to be more empathetic, to be kind, to belive in something or someone bigger than myself . She could have very easily thrown me away in an institution when I was two and forgotten she had me , but she didn’t. Like Candice Bergen’s mother she was bed ridden the last years of her life, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to take care of her , to be there for her as she had been for me. Somewhere during that last four years we transcended mother daughterhood and became friends, real friends and I cherish those last four years. She also had this weird and wonderful sense of humour, very dry in some cases , very ribald in others and I’ve inheirited that too. Am I like my mother gee I sure hope so, my dad said I was just before he died. I’m not fighting those adolescent wars anymore of breaking away from my parents and strugging to be me, at 54 , I know who I am and who made me that and I’m grateful. My mum’s been gone almost 17 years now and as I age I miss both my parents more now than I did when they died. I would have enjoyed seeing them see their grandson grow up. I would have enjoyed seeing their reactions to today’s world. Wherever you are Ma, have a great Mother’s Day. Love ya !

All of you who can still look at your mother and comment on this, I say “you lucky people”. I was age 12 when my wonderful mama died so it’s hard for me to remember everything. I know she was sweet and funny, which I inherited both traits. She was sick a lot and I have inherited those health problems. She loved to cook and I do to. She loved flowers and nature and so do I. And always remembered to take flowers to the cemetery for our long passed family and so do I. She loved her family, and I love my family. So I think I must have turned into my mom. It’s hard to remember. But, I sure miss my mama. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her face. I love you mama.

I tried my whole life not to be like her. But I am slipping. She was very smart, spoke 6 languages fluently and at 75 went to Esperanto classes and started to write people in China, Poland etc.. in Esperanto. She was a CPA. The day that the Yanks and Tommies marched into our Belgian village, my father told her that he was leaving for his mistress. She had lived 5 years in terror as she was the one operating a radio to England for my father’s work in the underground. I always admired her “come back” attitude. Have courage she told me over and over again and I hear that at night when it is quiet. So why did I avoid being like her ? She was brought up by nuns in a convent from age 3 to 18 and she was totally Victorian. Grey did not exist for her, it was either white or black. She did not know tolerance. Most of all I did not have unconditional love from her. If I lived up to her standard everything was fine, step out of line and the love was withheld. She left 15 years ago and I still miss her so I know I loved her a lot but mostly I was afraid of her. Afraid not to please. I hope my kids will never feel that way about me.

I have turned into my mother just a tiny bit. I still aspire to cook as well as she does. I, too, have become paranoid about sun exposure. When reaching for a plate for my sandwich, her comment “It’s just as easy to wash a big plate as it is to wash a small plate” comes to mind.

I really envy those of you who were close to their mothers and miss those who have passed away. I’ve tried all my life to be as diffferent from her as I could be. She was vain and shallow, totally indifferent to her childrens’ needs, caring only about “what will people think?” She played down any intelligence she might have had, in order to boost my father’s fragile ego. I’ve always tried to achieve my potential and met with her constant disapproval. Did I mention that she was critical of everything I did? But when I look in the mirror I see her face, and horror of horrors — I’ve started to play Mah Jongg!

My mother was not well educated, not well read, not very confident in her self, and not happy with her life. She put her four children before anything else and sacrificed her own life for us. That is her most major accomplishment and that makes me proud. It also makes me sad. The most important thing to her was to raise great kids and I was fortunate to learn that from her. But I also learned that I am my own person and sometimes it’s okay for me to put myself first! She died just over two years ago and I miss her like it was yesterday!

No, I am not my mother. I have not become my mother, nor am I moving in that direction. My mother has been dead for 38 years. She did not raise me. I look a great deal like her. We were very different persons. My mother was one of the bravest people I have ever known.