I am not my mother. Or maybe I am. It dawned on me last year, right around my 40th birthday, that I had morphed into her. This realization hit me like a ton of bricks while I was wandering through a flea market in West Tennessee. As I stood there, blue willow plate in hand, I couldn’t help but recall my mother’s exasperated remarks: “What on earth do I need with another set of dishes?” as she stacked yet another delicate saucer into our already overflowing cabinets. She and my grandmother adored collecting dishes, often complaining about space while plotting where to hide their treasures. Now here I was, clutching this blue willow plate and crafting my own scheme to squeeze it onto a shelf crammed with mismatched Mikasa, Fiesta, and faded plastic cups from Chuck E. Cheese. And just like her, I bought it—and stowed it away.
Memories of my mother’s passion for antique hunting flooded my mind. I remembered walking alongside her as she marveled at Hoosier cabinets (yes, I knew what they were without needing Google) and squealed over vintage bars of Ivory soap glowing in the light. Fast forward to today, and there I was, diving headfirst into the treasure trove of flea markets along the winding backroads of Tennessee.
My thoughts spiraled. What adorned my walls? How much did I cherish that slightly dented tole-painted tray? Good grief! There wasn’t a single piece of trendy decor from Kirkland’s in my kitchen or living room. The last time I hunted for a new wall hanging or metal sconce felt like ages ago. And potpourri? Ugh! I hadn’t touched that stuff in years. Yes, I had fully embraced the antiquing lifestyle, welcoming it with open arms and a sigh. The list of “just like my mother” was growing.
In the midst of this self-discovery, I caught a glimpse of my hands. I mean, really looked at them. They were just like hers—hands that wiped down the dinner table or folded laundry in the La-Z-Boy after a long day in the garden she shared with her own mother. My fingers were long and suited for someone nearly six feet tall, with knuckles that told a story and wrists that hadn’t changed since high school. They were her hands, now mine.
From plates to hands, my thoughts shifted to baking, and eventually, cookies. My mother’s chocolate chip cookies were legendary. Though I may not have inherited her expert baking skills, my kids plead for my version. Yes, plead—at 9:30 p.m. on a school night after I’ve survived the chaos of third-grade homework, Common Core math, and possibly a hurl and a nosebleed during a benchmark assessment. But I digress. (Sorry for the hurl reference in the cookie paragraph.)
They plead, I tell you. My mother’s spirit shines through me when I bake those cookies. At 9:30. On a school night. No denying it—I am my mother. Sliding warm, gooey cookies off the AirBake sheet onto waiting wax paper and witnessing my children’s joy for those few moments makes it all worthwhile. The sweet smell of brown sugar and chocolate lingers as I collapse into bed, surrounded by dirty dishes left for the next day. That’s why she did it—the cookies, the tuna noodle casserole (my all-time fave), the cheesecake. It was all for my sister and me, and now I find myself in her shoes—tired yet fulfilled, doing it for my own kids.
As I handed over the blue willow plate to the lady at the cluttered desk, I let out a nostalgic sigh. I watched as her hand, probably similar to my mother’s, accepted the paper bag, and I turned to leave. What did I spot? Right there in the first booth to the right was a Hoosier cabinet! How could I have missed it? Another sigh escaped me, for its curves and colors made me giddy. Lark…lark…where did I put that list again?