In Red at the Bone, by Jacqueline Woodson, a theme of mother-daughter relationships flows throughout the book. This great line, “I pressed my hand against my own face, felt the same structure beneath my skin,” reminded me how much of my mother rests in me.

Mirror Images

Every night as I follow my mother’s habit of slathering serums on my aging skin—in the jut of my chin, the line my lips form, the expression in my eyes—I am struck by a resemblance to my mother that I swear was never there before. Other than sharing the same eye color and height, I don’t think we look anything alike. She has an engaging smile and luminous skin. I am freckly, prone to breakouts, and have a crooked smile. 

And yet, lately, I find my mother’s reflection in the mirror more and more each day. Perhaps it’s a mere sign that our outward appearance will continue to alter within the ever-changing chapters of our lives. And, I don’t mind it, my mother turned eighty earlier this year, she’s healthy, and I hope to look as good at her age. But we haven’t hugged in six months, so I find it comforting to catch her staring back at me.

Becoming My Mother

But the line in Ms. Woodson’s book isn’t just about a daughter looking like her mother, it’s about how we behave like our mothers, and not always in ways we like. My children took the job of alerting me to the ways I have become my mother. Most notably while on vacation recently, I loudly exclaimed “clippity-cloppity” as a Clydesdale horse drawn carriage passed us on the street. “Omigod, you sound just like grandma,” my daughter said. It is not typical of me to talk sillily to animals or inanimate objects. It is very like my mother.

 Worried Momma

My mother has also crept into my parenting. She is almost always first to answer the phone and if I speak to her for a few minutes and then ask to speak to my father, she always asks if everything’s okay. It’s not that I only talk to my father when I’m in trouble, but some part of her must worry that my need to talk to him means something is wrong. 

Last year, I noticed I am prone to a similar worry. My son would call unexpectedly, and I would immediately answer the phone with a, “Hi, is everything okay?” After a few times of him annoyed with me for asking, I realized I needed to shirk my first reaction that he’s in trouble and open myself to whatever he needed to share. I trained myself to take a breath before answering his call to remind myself not to ask if something was wrong. And then I relished my son calling to tell me something good happened to him in the middle of the day. I’m learning that mothering isn’t a mastered skill, but more of a practiced art.

When I was younger, I remember telling my mother not to worry. In return, she would say, “I’m your mother, I’ll worry even when I’m eighty.” Maybe she said that because eighty seemed so far away. Well, now it’s here, mother, you’re still worrying and with kids of my own, I finally understand. I’m honored to see and feel your structure beneath my skin and I know you will never stop worrying. It’s your way of loving. Evidently, it’s my way too.

Thanks, Jacqueline Woodson, this is one great line.

If you can relate to this great line, I’d love to hear from you! Please scroll down and leave a comment.

If you’d like to read more about Red at the Bone click here.

If you’d like to read about me, and why I started this blog click here.