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.