We’re still very different, my mother and me.

And yet.

I often find myself saying or thinking things that I heard her say while I was growing up.

Things that once made me roll my eyes, things I prayed that I would never say once I got… you know, old.

I hear my kid whine about how she wants yet another piece of candy, and I catch myself saying, “When I was your age, your grandmother only let me have candy on Halloween.”  Which, by the way, is completely untrue.  I was allowed to have candy whenever there was candy around, it’s just that there was never any candy around.

Or, my favorite, “Eat your <insert offending food here>, there are children all over the world who don’t have even this much to eat in a day.”

Oh, God.  Yes, I have become my mother.

Pragmatic.  Principled.  Unwavering.  Stubborn.  Slightly, yet understandably, arrogant.

Okay, the arrogant part has pretty much always been there.

As a kid, her words existed as obstacles to my utter and total happiness.   Each trite platitude seemed to endure as one in a series of attempts to make me feel bad about what I was doing, what I wanted or how I was behaving.

Maybe that’s partly true, but… I don’t know, maybe it’s not.  Maybe she was just doing her best with the tools she had at her disposal.

I have realized that intention may not always be communicated precisely in the day to day of mothering…. or wife-ing… or friend-ing… or simply be-ing.

I remember this line in the movie version of The Joy Luck Club where a mother tells her daughter about how she brought a live swan from China only to have it taken away at immigration when she was entering the United States.  She kept a single feather from that swan for the purpose of handing it to her daughter and telling her one day, “This feather may look worthless, but it comes from afar and carries with it all my good intentions.”

Mothers and fathers hand swan feathers to their children all the time, I think.  We just forget to add the lyrical Chinese-y saying that keeps us from looking like jerks while we’re doing it.

For example, excuse me while I engage in an inexcusable level of self justification, but that line about kids starving in Africa/China/India/AMERICA?  That’s completely true.

I’m not trying to make my child feel bad for not eating, I’m trying to give her some perspective, you know?

Of course, she doesn’t see it that way.  She may never see it that way.  She may only see it that way as she utters the same trite phrase to her own children as they turn their noses up at whatever she’s decided to feed them one evening.

This is my hope that she, to quote my mother, “one day, has children who are exactly like her.”  She should be so lucky.  Don’t tell her I said that.

Perhaps, becoming some version of your mother (or father) is an intrinsic part of adulthood.

It seems to me that given that the average American woman’s life span is around eighty, my life is just five years short of being half over.  And that is barring any unforeseen acts of God.  Just as a completely unrelated side note, if I were a Puritan living in the seventeen hundred and somethings, I would actually be dead… like, two years ago.  Maybe even before that, because they would have thought I was a witch with accursed far eastern magic or something.  I know that doesn’t have anything to do with this post, but I just found that so interesting.  Anyway.

My point is, I think, that there are worse things than turning into your parents, or, more specifically, assuming the characteristics we associate with “thinking like an adult.”

Every kid needs an anchor, a rock upon which they can build their perspective of how the world works, and, of course, a person upon which to heap the blame during future therapy sessions. It’s my belief that the people who love you often require just as much “getting over” as the people who have hurt you intentionally.

I’ve made peace with the idea that one day my kids are going to grow up and think, “I can’t believe she did that to us.”

I live, however, by the value that they will also follow up with, “But she did what she thought was best because she loved us.”  I think, as a parent… or, actually, a human being in general, that’s the most anyone can realistically hope for.

So, yeah.  I have no problem being my mother.

Because my mother is a good person.

Because my mother raised good people.

There are worse things I could be, I think.  Actually, come to think of it, I can’t think of very many better things to be.

I.am.my.mother.

I just had to say that one more time, because, wow, surreal.

Also, what do you mean you didn’t like this post?!

Don’t you know there are slackers in China who don’t even have access to blogs?!

Now, settle down and finish your peas.

And do not forget to be a doctor when you grow up.