I am not my mother. I am not. Or am I? It was during my 40th birthday year when the realization struck me like a lightning bolt—I had seamlessly transformed into my mother. The awakening hit me while I was perusing a flea market in West Tennessee. As I stood there, contemplating the significance of yet another blue willow plate in my hands, I began mentally listing all the ways I thought I wasn’t like her. Laundry… oh, wait, scratch that one off and add it to the list.
As I inspected the plate for imperfections, memories of my mother flooded back. I could almost hear her voice lamenting, “What on earth do I need with another set of dishes?” while she tucked away yet another stack of delicate saucers into our already overflowing cabinets. She and my grandmother shared a passion for collecting, and their simultaneous complaints about storage space would echo through our home. Now, here I was, blue willow plate in hand, plotting how to fit it onto a shelf already brimming with mismatched Mikasa and Fiesta wares, along with a few faded cups from Chuck E. Cheese’s. Just like her, I bought it, and then found a place to stash it away.
The memories didn’t stop there. I realized I had inherited my mother’s fondness for antiquing. I remembered walking alongside her, captivated as she admired Hoosier cabinets (yes, I even knew the term without Googling it) and delighted over vintage bars of Ivory soap, all while the light danced off the bases of beveled kerosene lamps. I was now reliving those moments, spending my day hunting through the treasure troves of West Tennessee’s flea markets.
Suddenly, I was hit with a wave of realization. What adorned my own walls? How much affection did I have for a slightly dented tole-painted tray? Goodness! My kitchen and living room lacked any fresh decor from Kirkland’s. I hadn’t sought out a new wall hanging or metal sconce in ages. And potpourri? Pffft! That had been untouched for years. Yes, I had fully embraced antiquing, clinging to it like a long-lost friend. Another sigh escaped my lips as I added “love nor money” to my ever-growing list.
In the midst of this eye-opening journey, I noticed my hands. No, I truly noticed them. They were unmistakably hers. It was as if I was witnessing my mother’s hands in action—wiping down the dinner table or folding laundry after a long day in the garden she shared with her own mother. My hands, with their long fingers perfect for my nearly six-foot frame, echoing her own. From the knuckles to the slender wrists that hadn’t changed since high school—they were hers, now mine.
And thus, my thoughts spiraled. The plate led to my hands, which led to baking, and baking inevitably led to cookies. My mother’s chocolate chip cookies were legendary. While I might not have mastered her technique, my kids do plead for mine—yes, plead, even at 9:30 p.m. on a school night after enduring the trials of third-grade homework, Common Core, and perhaps a minor crisis or two. But I digress. (Apologies for the unpleasant imagery alongside the mention of cookies.)
They beg, I tell you. My mother’s spirit shines through me during these moments. At 9:30 on a school night, there’s no denying it—I am my mother. Sliding warm, gooey cookies off the AirBake sheet onto wax paper brings joy, knowing I’ve brightened my kids’ hearts, even if just for a few moments. The aroma of brown sugar and chocolate lingers in the air as I collapse into bed, leaving behind a pile of dirty dishes for morning. It’s what she did for us—the cookies, the tuna noodle casserole (my favorite), the cheesecake. She did it for my sister and me, and now I find myself, tired yet content, doing the same for my children.
As I handed the blue willow plate over to the woman behind the cluttered desk, I let out a small sigh. I watched her hand—probably just like my mother’s—take the paper bag, and as I turned to leave, what did I see? A Hoosier cabinet! How had I overlooked it? Another sigh escaped my lips, enchanted by its curves and color. Where did I put that list again?
In conclusion, as I reflect on my experiences at the flea market, it becomes clear that the traits I once thought I could escape are woven into my very being. From my mother’s love for antiques to the baking traditions we share, I have become her in more ways than I ever expected. For anyone on a similar journey of self-discovery or navigating the complexities of pregnancy and home insemination, resources like What to Expect When You Have Your First IUI and Boost Fertility Supplements can be invaluable. For those interested in the actual process, Impregnator At-Home Insemination Kit is an authority on the subject.
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