On becoming a mother, and realizing who taught me how.
My mother and I have always been different—in temperament, in values, in the way we move through the world. So naturally, we fought a lot.
I used to call her materialistic.
She would tell me I was too naive about the world.
We may interpret life very differently, but the eyes through which I first learned to see the world were hers. My mother showed me as much of the world as she knew how to show me. And I like to believe that many of the roads I am only beginning to walk are roads she has already traveled.
Someday, perhaps, the ideas I hold so confidently now will be worn smooth by harder years. And if I have a daughter who looks at the world with the same naivety I once did, will I know how to give way to her the way my mother has given way to me? Will I be able to cheer for a life that looks nothing like mine, the way she has cheered for mine?
In the end, I suppose the only way I can learn how to be a mother is from my own.
Mom,
when my turn comes,
do you think I can be a good mother too?
Just like you.
