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Reflections of My Mother
Looking in the mirror, I catch a glimpse of my mother’s features reflected back at me: her defined jawline, deep-set eyes, and that familiar nose. Even though she passed away 14 years ago, it feels like she’s still here, both unsettling and comforting. Growing up, I never thought I resembled her much, but now, at 41, as time works its magic, I can see her in my own face.
My new glasses, thick brown tortoiseshell frames, only add to the resemblance. Mom always wore glasses. There was that brief stint in her 40s when she tried contact lenses, but they didn’t stick. Glasses were her signature look. Without them, she felt exposed, her eyes too large and her nose too prominent. She was incredibly nearsighted and wore them the moment she woke up until she went to bed, even swimming with them. I can still picture her, glasses on, cutting through the waves with her red curls pinned up.
She had a flair for stylish eyewear, often returning from her fashion trips to Europe with unique frames that no one else had back home. My dad would often raise an eyebrow at her spending, but Mom would remind him that glasses were, after all, something you wore all the time and right in the middle of your face! It always took me a few days to adjust to her new pairs. When she passed away suddenly from cancer at 56, my brother and I received a bag containing her new glasses, along with her medications and favorite lip gloss. Seeing those glasses—a pair I’d barely gotten used to—brought me to tears in the hospital lobby.
I came into the world when she was 30 and have the clearest memories of her in her 40s, around my age now. To me, she was always enchanting, but I wonder if she saw something less flattering in her mirror. As her red hair turned gray and fine lines appeared, did she feel time slipping away? “When people say you look tired, Daisy, what they really mean is you look old,” she once told me while touching up her makeup.
I used to watch her morning routine closely—moisturizing, applying concealer, and plucking. I absorbed every detail of her, from her long fingers to her sharp collarbone. Once, she caught me staring and commented, “I thought the same about my mother, how old and ugly she looked, and couldn’t believe I’d ever look like that.” I wish I had told her I wasn’t thinking that at all.
As I navigate life without her, memories resurface—how she curled her eyelashes so they wouldn’t touch her lenses, smoothing out the lines on her forehead. I catch myself doing the same, and as my features change, I see her in my reflection. I wear my new glasses on busy days to hide the dark circles under my eyes, and I now understand that she likely did the same, which is why others preferred her with her glasses.
When my kids were born, whom she never got to meet, I often looked for signs of her in them. Did Mia inherit her nose? What about Jake’s hair? And little Ellie, her namesake, already sports her stylish purple frames at just 8. I see bits of her in all of them, but most profoundly, I see her in myself—not just in looks, but in how I approach life and guide my children, nurturing their independence and, yes, their own sense of style. I put on my glasses and see the world she missed.
For more on family and parenting, check out this link to another blog post. If you’re interested in the world of home insemination, Make a Mom has some great insights. And for those seeking additional information, the CDC offers an excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, looking in the mirror reveals not just my mother’s features but also her spirit and approach to life. I carry her legacy forward, nurturing my children while seeing her reflected in their faces and my own.