Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, I Am My Mother After All.

It is no surprise by now that my mother is my best friend.We are completely opposite in some very key areas, we are alike in all the onesthat count, and we bring out the best (and I guess worst) in each other incertain instances that take me by surprise.

Of course, as I am sure most daughters of mothers (yes ladies, that would be all of us) can attest to, there was that one moment whereI realized, “oh my gracious, I’m turning into her!” It started harmlesslyenough, when I realized I wiped the sink down in my first dorm room the way Isubconsciously watched my mother do so many times. As time went on though, Ifound myself doing things- saying things- SOUNDING just like her. I saw a signonce that said, “sometimes I open my mouth and my mother comes out.” I smirkedonly because I’ve never read anything more true.

I’m going to be honest- as a grown adult with my very ownjob and bills (hooray!...), it is so easy to be best friends with my mother from8 hours away. I miss her, I cry for her, and I look forward to our dailyconversations. But it took a little adjusting when she recently came to staywith me for a week and a half.  How couldshe not know to turn the lights off? I don’t think I have EVER turned the lighton in my spare bedroom. How dare she move my expertly placed decorative pillowson the couch. And, gasp! She tried my eye cream??!! I’m not sure how Ms. EsteeLauder would feel about that.

To figure out the level of my ridculousness, I shared thesethings with the always level-headed Shane. Not even half-way through mydramatic, adjective-ridden spiel, however, he just couldn’t help the smirk. The smirk quickly turned into laughter and I just stared at him. “What is sofunny!?” I said, gaping. “Honey,” he began, still laughing, but a gentle handon my shoulder. “You act JUST like her.”

So there it was. As a 24-year-old woman who prided herselfon independence, whit, savvy shopping, and promptness, there was no escapingthose little quirky quirks of my mother. They were swimming in my veins. Therewas no alternate exit. Pass “go” and collect 500 genes.  

On a recent trip to visit her family in Pennsylvania (see a previous post about this wonderful place here), mymother sent me a picture. It simply said, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, I am mymother after all.”

So, ladies, if it hasn’t happened yet- take heart. It iscoming…and probably quicker than you would think.  You will wake up one day, look in the mirror,and realize that face staring back at you is not your own. It’s the face, voice,mannerisms, idiosyncrasies, laugh, fashion sense, and dance skills of noneother than mommy dearest.

Good thing I happen to have a mother who is beautiful,charming, fashionable, funny, AND a great dancer.  I certainly lucked out. 

Dear Avery, Love Mom

There are two things in this world that I have always known I wanted to be: a writer and a mother.

Some people go through elementary school with a football under their arm, a stethoscope around their neck, or a pair of ballet shoes they just can't come to terms with taking off. Me? I attended to my doll babies and constructed elaborate stories, poems, and dialogues. I had a fun childhood full of ballet, pa-sghetti, sponge curlers, and sleepovers. My mom and I held hands as we walked through Dillards and ate chicken fingers at Chili's. I wrote poems and songs that I would read aloud at the dinner table or to my most influential teachers. These traits would follow me, as I am still honing them now: I am still learning to weave writing in my everyday life, I love nothing more than being around babies, and am excited for the day I will have my own (although, I am content waiting a few years for that.)

I read the most incredible blog last week that I just could not peel my eyes away from, and yet it has haunted me just the same. A co-worker shared with me the blog of a girl she had grown up with, and now lives in Kentucky with her husband. A girl known for her charm, sweet disposition, and servant's heart, Carey is the kind of person you know is destined for great things, and "her children will call her blessed" (Proverbs 31).

When Carey discovered she was pregnant with her first child, she was ecstatic. She started her blog, Dear Avery, as a collection of letters she writes to her unborn child. Although my co-worker spoiled the ending for me, I started reading Carey's blog from the beginning. 

I have never been pregnant or brought life into the world, but I know that the love Carey expressed to the child growing inside her was something I have yet to experience... it was the most astonishingly beautiful account of love one could read. I almost felt privileged, let in on a secret I wasn't sure I should know all about.

Carey spoke to her daughter, Avery, as if she was sitting in front of her, soaking up every word that was typed. And when Carey found out about her daughters condition, I felt a twinge of the hurt Carey felt.

You will need to read about Carey and Avery's journey yourself... I read through the entire blog in one sitting, bursting with a plethora of feelings I didn't know I could feel for a family I have never met.

The love Carey felt for her unborn child, the decisions she made, and the pain she endured is something I personally know nothing about. But sometimes, you just know where you are called. I am a firm believer that God never gives you more than you can handle, and nothing that you cant go out and do good with. Carey, I believe, fits that category. It may not have been the hand she deserved, she prayed for, or could ever imagine... but something good will come out of her story.

Please read Carey's blog. It will do something to your soul I can't even explain. Or maybe it won't, but it sure did something in me.

I know bumps, bruises, and detours happen when we least expect them and usually, at the most inopportune times. Like Carey, though, I will never let that get in my way of what I feel called to become.