I Am My Mother

And I’m Not Sad About It


I find every day that I am more like my mother than the last. From her looks, to her phobias, to her parenting. Though I don’t have kids, I have a nine year old sister that I subconsciously treat like my child. Sometimes I feel bad for little J that she has three mothers between my mom, my older sister, and myself. Then I realize that we are hopefully shaping her to become the best parts of each of us.
Today, little J graduated from fifth grade. I have a pretty routine nightly FaceTime session with her and my mom. Tonight was no different. Without fail on the last day of school my mom would ask the questions we always rolled our eyes at and unwillingly answered: “What grade are you in?” We would mutter the grade we would be starting in another three months. Once I got into high school, it became a little more fun to answer, then into college. Birthday’s are no different, but usually a lot more exciting to answer as a kid. During our FT sesh tonight, I did the annoying thing my mother has no doubt already done today and my older sister will most likely do later; asked Jazmyn what grade she’s in. She immediately folded her arms and threw out her hip, “sixth grade” she mumbled. We clearly get much more enjoyment out of this than she does. Give it a few years.
Some of the things I have gotten from my mother are wonderful. I drink my coffee the same way, cream only and easy to order two of. I clean the same way, on a daily basis. Exact same size shoe. Positive outlook on life and a way to always find the good in things. Ability to make up words like doneskians, which is long for done, or just simply add “arama” to anything. Jazarama (Jazmyn), mallarama (mall), winearama (wine). We communicate different than any other two people I have met. We can read each other’s lips, and no one else’s, and somehow we are able to text in acronyms and figure out what the other is saying. Tmwyhhfddtm. Text me when you’re home, have fun, don’t drink too much. Yes, I’m serious.
I have even picked up some not so wonderful traits from her. Constant heartburn. My big toe, knees, and nail beds. Enochlophobia, fear of crowds, if you don’t know. Worrying about the worst possible case in any situation, which makes it tough at times to live in New York City. I’m sure you can imagine.
Though she raised my two sisters and me very different than how she was raised, I think she has done a damn good job. Because of her, I have never done a drug nor smoked a cigarette in my life. She wanted us to tell her everything, even the bad things, so she could be our friend and help us more than punish us. I am independent, I know what’s right, and I treat others how I want to be treated. I am beginning to realize, she was always right. About everything, and I’m hoping it doesn’t take little J as long to realize that too.
Most importantly, she has taught me to love myself more than anything. Not to be confused with being selfish or conceded. It means to drink a glass of wine whenever I want to, or light candles even when I’m alone, and buy myself flowers once a week because they’re pretty and make me happy. At the end of the day, I am my mother, and there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it.
Look out world, there’s two of us now. I hope you all love your moms as much as I love mine. And I hope she knows it as much as mine does.
PS. Sorry for any typos, I didn’t send her this one to proof read.

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