Like mother like daughter

I think it's safe to say that my mother is my biggest fan, which as it turns out is both fabulous and irritating. Because we all would rather Oprah or Bill Clinton or Sting was our biggest fan right? That would mean we'd really arrived. Alas, none of those people have heard of me yet (unless Sting has been googling about potty training lately). So it's mom. Which is fine. I totally appreciate that she thinks I'm great. I have always felt her love and support and for that I'm grateful - at least now anyway. It wasn't always the case. There were many years that her unconditional devotion and blind admiration was no match for my self-doubt and insecurity. For every compliment I had a snarky response.

Her: I wish I had your hair.
Me: My hair is disgusting.
Her: I wish I was tall like you.
Me: I'm not tall.
Her: I wish I had your creativity.
Me: I haven't had an original thought in years.
Her: I wish I was as organized.
Me: You mean neurotic?

Every time I came home to visit, she'd want to know where I bought whatever I was wearing. When she came to visit me, she'd look through my goodwill pile and want to take things home. It felt like she was trying to be me. Which of course I hated. Why would anyone want to be me after all?

And then I had my own daughter. Baby girl is only six months old but I can already see the beginnings of total devotion and admiration. I actually found myself asking my hair stylist to make my hair color match my daughter's. Her hair is so dark and shiny. Make it like that. I just think everything about her is so perfect. And of course I would - I made her.

So now I get it. Thanks ma.