You know, it hit me last year on my 40th birthday—I’m turning into my mom. I mean that in the most eye-opening way possible. Picture me standing in a flea market in West Tennessee, a blue willow plate in my hands, and suddenly it’s like a lightbulb went off. I started mentally listing all the ways I thought I was different from her. Laundry? Yep, that’s on the list now too.
As I examined that plate for any chips or cracks, memories came rushing back of my mom saying, “What on earth do I need with another set of dishes?” while she carefully stacked yet another delicate saucer in our already overflowing cabinets. Both she and my grandmother loved collecting dishes, often complaining about the lack of space while simultaneously plotting where to hide their latest finds. And there I was, with my blue willow plate, figuring out how to squeeze it into a shelf already filled with a mismatched assortment of Mikasa and Fiesta plates alongside faded plastic cups from Chuck E. Cheese. Just like Mom, I bought it and found a spot for it.
Then it struck me that I was also spending a ridiculous amount of time antiquing. I had grown up wandering alongside my mom as she gushed over Hoosier cabinets (I even knew the term without a Google search!) and delighted at the shine of vintage kerosene lamps. Fast forward to now: I was deep in the heart of vintage heaven in West Tennessee.
My thoughts started to whirl. What adorned my walls? How much affection did I have for a slightly dented tole-painted tray? Good grief! There wasn’t a single piece of trendy decor from Kirkland’s in my kitchen or living room. I hadn’t even thought about wall art or metal sconces in ages. Potpourri? Not a chance! I had embraced antiquing with open arms. It felt like a bear hug I wasn’t letting go of for love or money. Ugh, add that to my growing list.
While I was lost in my thoughts, I really looked at my hands. They were hers. It was as if I was watching my mom’s hands in action, wiping down the dinner table or folding towels after a long afternoon in the garden. My hands, with long fingers perfect for a woman nearing 6 feet tall, were hers—same knuckles, same thin wrists that hadn’t changed since high school. They were absolutely her hands, now mine.
The plate made me think of baking, which quickly led to cookies. My mom made the best chocolate chip cookies, and while I might not have her exact touch, my kids beg for mine. I’m talking serious pleas at 9:30 PM on school nights after surviving a chaotic evening of third-grade homework and whatever else life threw my way. But getting back to the cookies, I find a little bit of my mom in me when I’m racing against the clock to make those warm, gooey treats. Sliding them onto wax paper and seeing my kids’ faces light up is worth the pile of dirty dishes waiting in the sink. That’s why she did it for me, and now I’m doing it for my own kids.
As I handed over the blue willow plate to the vendor, I sighed a little sigh, watching her take the bag, probably with hands like my mom’s. As I turned to leave, I spotted it—a Hoosier cabinet right in the first booth. How had I missed that? I sighed again because its curves, lines, and color made me as happy as a lark. Where did I put that list again?
To sum up, discovering how I’ve turned into my mother was both surprising and heartwarming. From antique shopping to baking cookies, I see her influence in everything I do. It’s a beautiful realization that connects generations, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
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