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There’s something incredibly special about growing up alongside someone who becomes your closest confidant.
She was just eighteen, a college freshman on a pre-med track. After working tirelessly to earn a spot at her dream school, she was the epitome of success — prom queen, best smile, most likely to succeed. Then, everything shifted when she discovered she was pregnant with me.
Her plans took a backseat as she transitioned into motherhood, leaving behind lifelong aspirations. She left college, married my father, and embraced her new role as a mom. Fast forward thirty-seven years, and she has become my best friend. Our connection is both sacred and unique; there’s something extraordinary about a mother and daughter so close in age, growing up and learning from one another.
I’ve felt an attachment to her for as long as I can remember, often in an oddly dependent, intertwined way. We are enmeshed, perhaps a result of a young mother trying to navigate parenting while her child learns about life. I rarely left her side as a kid — she was my comfort, my safety net. At birthday parties and playdates, she always had to be within arm’s reach. In fifth grade, my swim coach moved me to a lane with the kindergartners just so I could be closer to her at the edge of the pool. As I entered high school and college, I began to find my independence, but I always relied on her for guidance and support. She handled all my teenage drama with grace, never trying too hard to be “cool,” but always providing wise, mature advice.
Despite our closeness, she maintained the line between mom and friend. At her age, she could have easily blended in with my friends, especially during my high school and college years. But she stayed true to her role, donning quirky sweaters and spending time with much older peers, all while firmly establishing rules at home. Despite the age difference, she understood the importance of not confusing our roles. Now, as I reflect on my parenting journey at thirty-seven, I am astounded by the difference in our experiences.
For the past nine years, I’ve been a mother, while she has been a grandmother. With the need for traditional parent-child boundaries fading, she has become my ultimate ally and confidant. This close age dynamic has proven to be a remarkable gift.
We text throughout the day, starting almost as soon as we wake up. Our conversations mirror those with my friends — full of sarcasm, cheeky jokes, and pop culture references. She is my go-to for advice, whether it’s about parenting or life in general. She listens without judgment and offers valuable insights. Topics we discuss rarely carry any limits; like any best friend, we have an open line of communication.
She is my first choice for a girls’ night out. Fun, engaging, and full of energy, she keeps up with trends, from wearing Hokas to riding her Peloton and indulging in reality TV. Our humor and references align perfectly. We often shop together, and she loves to raid my closet before trips. Our long walks are filled with venting sessions, with no generational gap to bridge. She never reminisces about how different things were in her youth, because, honestly, they weren’t.
However, there are some downsides to this close relationship. If she leaves me anything in her will, we might end up sharing a room in a nursing home. She can outdo me in workout classes and still look fabulous at events. Her presence serves as a constant reminder of the ideal relationship I aspire to have with my own daughters, a bond that feels unattainable due to our age difference.
Giving birth to my first child at twenty-eight and my fourth at thirty-seven means my daughters’ experiences will differ significantly. I might not possess the same energy, relevance, or coolness that my mom has now. I may be older, less in touch, and more clueless.
Yet, I remain optimistic that I can cultivate a wonderful — albeit different — bond with my daughters. Even if we can’t share clothes or vibe in the same way, I hope to create a connection that is equally meaningful.
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