We women always hear that we’ll turn into our mothers. (Do men have this equivalent? Do they turn into their fathers??). So it’s inevitable. But the more I hang out with my mom (who’s here this week), the more I see our similarities.

From a very early age, I rejected the idea that we could be the same. I strove for individuality. When people commented that my horribly cruel boy haircut cute pixie cut made me look just like my mom, since we both had black hair, I’d growl, “My hair is brown, not black.” A small difference, but to a stubborn 5-year-old, I had to cling to my identity.

Mom cherishes a story from college, where I called her mock crying, “I’m turning in to you! I have sticky notes everywhere!” I don’t recall this, but I likely banished it to the dark place in my brain.

I’ll now tell the hub something about her that gets on my nerves (her desire to share her entire life story with checkout clerks, her magpie constant chatter, her silliness) and he just raises an eyebrow at me and says,  “Oh really?”

Which translates to, “Oh that gets on your nerves about your mom? Because that same exact quality in YOU is what gets on MY nerves!”

I know how to read him. I slink away in shame.

I hope that I won’t end up wearing muumuus, like my mom (and her mom) does. But there are some great things I’m glad to be like my mom in:

• Very caring to other people. We’ll take you under our wings in a second.
• Love of travel. She and my dad used to travel all over the country. I’m working on the world.
• Love of books. We both are devourers of literature.
• Wine lovers. Enough said. We bought 6 bottles last night and I’m embarrassed to say how many are left.

So Mom, I’m proud to be turning into my mother. Just don’t buy me a muumuu.