I have become my mother!

I swore it would never happen, but the inevitable has been sneaking up on me for years. For one thing, I see her in the mirror. The first few times I gasped out loud, but I'm getting used to it. The funny thing is I never looked like her when I was younger. Maybe all those genes were just waiting to let loose all at once. I know I sound like her, at least her inflections and little sayings. Every once in a while one of my daughters will catch me in a gesture and say, "Oh, that was such a grandma face!"

Some habits are engrained—taught, trained, repeated. As children, we learn them; as adolescents, we fight them; as grownups, we adopt them. So many things I do are because my mother either did them or drilled the behaviors into me. I see those same traits and expressions in my own daughters.

Today, I was particularly aware of how much I am like my mother. It is Sunday. I had no particular plans except to work (Sunday ... Tuesday ... Friday ... that's what I do). But first, I did the morning ritual: washed my face, brushed my teeth, made coffee, and drank it while I read a mystery. Then, I went into high gear, from shower to serious hair and make-up to straightening up my condo. My outfit, selected for comfort, was coordinated; so was my jewelry.

Here is the irony. I wasn't going anywhere. I never left the house; no one dropped by. The only person who even knew I went through all that effort was yours truly. I was ready for company or the mailman or anyone. But that really wasn't the point. My mother was always immaculately groomed and coordinated, earrings to toenails. That's what I remember most vividly. That's what I admired. That's what I loved about her.

My life, my resposibility

I relearned an old lesson today. This has happened in the past, but every time I learn it, I am surprised. It is as if I had never considered this idea before. Yet, it is so obvious, so fundamentally true, I am always amazed I have forgotten it.

I am responsible for my life. That's it, in a nutshell. I am the captain of my tiny vessel floating around in the sea of life. I am in charge of the route I choose, the decisions I make, my well being, my happiness, my responses, my actions. Everything.

That's a simple but powerful thought. In one way, it's scary; in another, it is liberating. As an adult, I have choices. But with choices comes responsibility.

This came home to me in two ways yesterday. The first was disturbing. I was talking to a doctor. When I complained that I was unable to reach him by phone or get straight answers to some important questions, he explained that he had thousands of patients of which I was only one. I guess I indicated that I really didn't care about the thousands of patients. He became irritated. He said, "This is your illness, not mine. It's your responsibility to follow up, not mine. You are responsible for your medical care." No mistaking that message!

Later, I was reading a book on the power of focus by Leo Babauta, and suddenly there were those words again in an entirely different context. "You are responsible for your life." I read it again. I fully expected to see a sky-writing plane overhead with the same words trailing behind it.

Funny that I have to keep relearning the same lesson again and again. I swear I'll remember it this time. Maybe I should write it on my hand in indelible ink.