By: Lila Anderson
“Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them. They move on. They move away. The moments that used to define them are covered by moments of their own accomplishments. It is not until much later that children understand; their stories and all their accomplishments sit atop the stories of their mothers and fathers, stones upon stones, beneath the water of their lives.” —Paulo Coelho
Recently, I stumbled upon an old home video of my children. As I watched, I was captivated not just by their adorable antics but also by the moments featuring my mother. Seeing her in the footage brought back a rush of memories I had nearly forgotten. Her voice echoed in my mind, reminding me of our interactions when I was a young, anxious mother, and she was the loving grandmother to my first child.
Since 2010, my mom has been battling Alzheimer’s, which has ignited a journey of profound introspection for me.
I often find myself reflecting on how vastly different I am from my mother. It’s a complex mix of guilt, defiance, and self-discovery. My mom, a tall, graceful blonde with piercing blue eyes, epitomized gentleness and selflessness. She would unconditionally give everything she had, even a solitary cookie, if it meant making me happy. Her life revolved around family and faith, with her answer to every problem simply being, “Pray about it.” She was the quintessential pastor’s wife, always present in the front pew on Sundays.
In stark contrast, I am a petite, sturdy brunette with brown eyes, known for my curiosity and skepticism. If my children were to describe me, their words would likely differ from the adjectives I would choose for my mom. Passive? Not a chance. Soft-spoken? Definitely not. Fragile? Absolutely not. Self-sacrificing? Maybe, but I wouldn’t hesitate to keep my favorite snacks to myself.
Despite the stark differences in our personalities and parenting styles, I have come to realize that my mother’s influence is more profound than I initially acknowledged. She was an English teacher, my first mentor, who instilled in me a love for language and writing. Her dream was to become a missionary in Africa—although she never made it there, she dedicated years to service in South America. When her parents faced Alzheimer’s, she returned home to care for them during their final days.
In these reflections, I begin to recognize the threads of similarity that connect us. I am now an English teacher, nurturing my children’s love for literature and reading. While I may not have dreamed of Africa, I have pursued my own dreams by moving my family across the country to Colorado, and when life demanded it, we relocated back to the East Coast to care for our ailing loved ones. My mom’s influence can be seen in these significant decisions, shaping my life even if it doesn’t reflect her personality.
As I continue to grow as a mother, my children see a confident woman who is passionate about her career and dedicated to helping others. Unlike my mom, I am not just an observer in the background; I stand alongside my partner, contributing equally to our family. My daughter affectionately calls me “muscle mama,” recognizing my strength—both physical and emotional. My kids witness my constant efforts to evolve and improve without sacrificing my individuality. I hope they realize the importance of maintaining one’s identity while embracing motherhood; after all, my worth is just as significant as theirs.
I once came across a meme that read, “Sometimes when I open my mouth, my mother comes out.” I chuckled at how untrue that sentiment feels for me. I don’t hear my mother’s voice in my daily life anymore, and I miss her gentle tone. Yet, I can still sense her presence in the pivotal choices that have shaped who I am today. Our paths diverged significantly; where she took the conventional route, I often veer left. Still, we both showed up for our families in the ways we knew best.
I will never mirror my mother, and that is perfectly fine. I often wish for one last conversation with her to hear her thoughts about my life choices. Some would likely cause her disappointment, while others would fill her with pride. I like to believe she would be pleased to see that she raised a strong, independent daughter who is unafraid to forge her own path. Yet, deep down, she might prefer that I had chosen a safer, more traditional route.
I do not mother the way my mother did, but she brought me into this world and imparted invaluable lessons about love and life. I celebrate our differences, understanding that our bond runs deeper than what separates us. I honor her legacy by embracing my authentic self in motherhood every single day.
For more insights on motherhood and parenting, check out this related blog post. If you’re considering at-home insemination options, visit Make a Mom for reliable kits. Additionally, for information on IUI success rates, WebMD is an excellent resource.
Summary:
Reflecting on the differences and similarities between my mother and me, I’ve come to appreciate how her influence shapes my journey through motherhood. While I may not mother the way she did, I honor her legacy by forging my own path, ensuring I maintain my identity while embracing my role as a mother.
Leave a Reply