Not Quite Betty Crocker

Lately I increasingly remind myself of my mom.  Walking around with my hair in a bun on top of my head, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I stop.  Wow, I think.  I look just like my mom.

I’ve never been blessed with the ability to see resemblances in people.  When babies are born, people inevitably claim to see “his mom’s nose” or “his dad’s chin.”  Not me, and especially not in newborn babies, whom I love but still think look less like babies or people and more like, well, newborns.  I’m more apt to note behavioral similarities.  “He laughs just like you do,” I tell my neighbor of her one-year old son, “but he smiles like his daddy.”

It makes sense, then, that the more settled I feel and the closer to having children I get, the more I see my mom in myself.  But it’s not just my mom.  I hear my voice on a recording of a meeting and I sound just like my sister. Exactly. When I make a stupid face, I feel her with me.

I cringe at a hint of judgment and I’m my grandmother.  I offer food – constantly – like my other grandmother.

The older I get, the more I see my people when I look at myself.

At first, I was uncomfortable.  I love my mama and think she’s pretty amazing, but to see her in my own reflection was slightly off-putting.  I want to be me, all unique and quirky and 100% me, but seeing her in myself makes me feel like my future is all laid out just waiting for me to live it.  I get claustrophobic. 

I felt the same way when I first visited this part of the country and saw the mountains laid out in ever-increasing heights.  I had seen photographs, but the reality of the distance between myself and that fifteenth mountain top overwhelmed me; I could not imagine the determination and strength of character required of settlers faced with the same view. 

But as I’ve become accustomed to recognizing my people in myself, I’ve found it a comfort.  I like my mama.  If my kids have the same relationship with me that I have with her, I’ll be happy.  Not perfect, not calm, and not always easy, but good and trusting and completely confident in each other’s ability to play our roles well.

When I’m not sure what to do, what to think, or where to go, my mama’s mama is with me.  I don’t recall her words very well, but I feel them.  She’s why I met my best friend.  She’s why I listened to my sister the night I met my husband.  She’s why I am me because she’s why my mom is who she is.

And in memories I have found a closeness with my father’s parents that I did not have in life.  I find myself praying and reaching for faith and I feel my grandma.  For a brief moment, we are close.  I close ranks around my family – canine, feline, or human – and I feel my grandpa’s approval.  We take care of our own, and though we never had a discussion about it, we didn’t need to.  I am, without a doubt, his granddaughter.

I am also, without a doubt, my dad’s daughter.  I am like him in so many ways, from my anxiety at being late to my willingness to write a check if it helps.  And increasingly I recognize how hard it is to be a dad and how good a dad he is.  I want my kids to have a dad like him.  Being able to see him as a person, as a dad, as the kind of man I want in my life rather than as someone in relation to me, as my dad, as the person who caused me so much discomfort growing up because I didn’t know how to be his daughter – this was a big deal.  And now I see myself acting like my dad and I don’t mind.  I like him.  He’s where I get my sentimental heart… and gobs of hair.

Growing up comprises many things, but one of them must certainly be the willingness to accept that you come from your people - and finding the good and comforting and peaceful in that knowledge.  I have always been who I am, a person descended from my people, but only recently have I been grown up enough to allow them in and welcome them happily. 

… even my pesky little brother who is everything I’ve always wanted to be.  Because we’re as similar as any two siblings can be, I like to think that means I’m pretty awesome, too.

Having opened up my heart to the family party, then, I can suddenly see resemblances.  My siblings and I all have the same nose.  My sister, mom and I have always shared the same smile.  My brother’s cheeks are just like mine.  We all have the same eyes… and quirky sense of humor.

It’s not all rainbows and butterflies, of course.  I’ve picked up really frustrating and negative traits, too, but I’ll take them all, thankyouverymuch, if that’s what it takes to have my people with me, around me, inside my very soul.

I’m happy to have fallen not far from this family tree.  Even this part.