I'm turning into my mother

By PATTIE MIHALIK

newsgirlcomcast.net

I always knew what I wanted to be in life.

Ever since fourth grade, I knew I wanted to work for a newspaper.

I also always knew what I didn't want to be.

I didn't want to be like my mother.

I'm ashamed of myself when I think of the times I told her, "I never want to be like you."

Consciously, I don't think I ever tried to be the opposite of everything she was. I don't think it was on purpose that I shied away from liking the same things she liked. I just accepted the fact that we were different from the get-go.

She always loved nice clothes. Before a scheduled wedding or special event, she would carefully plan what she was going to wear. So would all my aunts and cousins. Then they would talk about it together.

When my mother would ask what I planned to wear, I would say, "I don't know. I'll just reach in my closet and pull out what strikes me."

In many ways, my mother was younger than I was with much more youthful activities. It was always like role reversal.

She loved to listen to rock 'n' roll. I played classical music. She went dancing a few nights a week. I stayed home and read.

When I graduated from high school, I continued reading classic books and listening to classical music. My mother continued going dancing a few nights a week to rock 'n' roll bands.

On occasion my classmates danced with my mother, praising her for her youthful stamina. I was too intimidated to dance because I knew I wasn't good at it.

The list of our differences went on and on.

My mother decorated in white. At a time when wallpaper and colored walls were the rage, she had every room in the house painted white.

"I love the way it makes the house so restful," she would say, adding that white walls make it easy to decorate with any color.

When I got married and had my first apartment, I said we could paint the walls any color except white. White walls were boring, I thought.

So we painted every room a different color and did the same thing with our first home.

Let's fast forward a few decades to present day. I really am turning into my mother.

The thought hit me after I sent my daughter a photo of me on the way to our Thursday night dance wearing the great dolphin necklace she bought me for Christmas.

My daughter answered my email with a question: How many women your age go dancing several times a week?

I thought then of my mother and her love of dancing. I didn't dance when I was younger but I sure do now. Just like my mother.

Come into my house and look around. What you'll find are white walls. Every room in the house is white. In fact, my favorite decorating scheme is white on white with nautical blue for accent.

Just like my mother did years ago, I find myself saying, "White walls are so restful."

If you look in my closets, you'll find they are packed with clothes. Now, I'm a clotheshorse, just like my mother was.

The first time my daughter Andrea called me a clotheshorse, I said, "No way! The only kind of clothes I buy are kayaking and exercise clothes," I insisted.

How then, did I get two walk-in closets jammed with all kinds of clothes? I blame it all on genes I got from my mother.

And, you know what? I'm proud of every gene and every trait I inherited from her.

Sometimes when I have to have a painful medical procedure done, I don't flinch. I think of my mother and her physical and mental toughness. Then I try to act just like her.

I wish I would have told her more often how much I admired her while she was still here.

I wish I would have said, "I'm proud of how tough you can be when you have to be."

When she had to support two young children on her own, she never complained. She worked in a factory during the day then came home and made a healthy supper before rushing off to her waitressing job at night.

Did I ever thank her for that? No, I complained to her because I "was stuck at home each night watching my younger brother."

Did I ever thank her for the diligent way she raised me, instilling in me a strong sense of right from wrong?

No way. Instead I complained that she was too strict.

While I was doing all the complaining, do you know what my mother was doing?

She quietly loved me, sacrificing so much of her life raising her children. It wasn't until she married my stepfather years later that she got the life she deserved.

She didn't get the praise she deserved from me.

Decades later, I sit here hoping she's looking down from heaven knowing how much I love her and appreciate all she did for me.

Every now and then I catch a glimpse of my image in the mirror and am startled to see I'm starting to look like my mother.

But then I smile and tell myself how lucky I am.