The warm water washed over me and as usual I began to think of all the things I needed to do. I also started to think of all the things I wanted to do. It was Saturday and I was told to take more time to myself. Thoughts of my family began to drift into my head. My own family. How lucky I am. My sisters, my dad and my mom. My mom….
For eight years my memories of her have brought me sadness, anger and even embarrassment. She had left this world losing her battle with depression. The years leading up to her death were more then challenging, exhausting and something daughters should never have to do. Up until last year if someone said, “Oh you remind me of your mom!” or “That reminds me so much of your mother!!” I found myself overwhelmed with anger and embarrassment.
“I was not like her!”, I would exclaim to myself.
Eight years later it is just a typical Saturday morning. I am so happy with my life, happy with myself and so happy with the mother, wife, friend and women I have become. I am strong and independent. I love my job. I get to go to work everyday and do what I have always wanted to do. My daughters are polite, articulate, creative and love life. My house is a lived in clean. The laundry is done, but not folded. The floor is scattered with toys and the markers and art work on the kitchen table always have to be cleaned up before dinner.
I am not like my mother.
Yet, still I find myself taken by the love and longing for my mother. I am finally able to get past the wall of anger. I love my mother. I miss my mother. I have always loved my mother. I hate the illness she had, I hate what it did to her. I hate what it made me have to do.
I’m not like my mother.
Today I find myself suddenly in a much different place. A place where I look back on the memories of my mom and they are fond and loving. She was the most wonderful mother. She was loving, gentle, selfless, she loved life and was passionate about being a mother. Her greatest goal in life was to raise us to be well rounded, happy, successful women. So today I find myself overwhelmingly happy to be compared to my mom. Happy to be lucky enough to have many of my moms features. Blessed to be able to share with my daughters traditions my mother gave me. Smiling that my daughter loves to have her back rubbed the same way my mom rubbed mine. Lovingly, sharing fantastic stories and memories of my mother with my daughters… and with tears in my eyes and reflecting smile I find myself thinking: I’m not my mother, but I will always be my mothers daughter.
Post inspired by writing prompt from Mama Kat’s
Not your mother’s daughter…how do you parent differently than your mother did?
Is it a good thing or a bad thing?