I am not my mother. Or am I? It was during my 40th birthday last year that I had the startling realization that I had indeed transformed into my own mother. This epiphany struck me while I was browsing a flea market in West Tennessee. In an instant, my mind began to race with all the ways I thought I wasn’t like her, but wait—laundry! I should definitely add that to the list.
As I examined a blue willow dinner plate for imperfections, I was hit with memories of my mother’s voice lamenting, “What do I need with another set of dishes?” while she placed yet another stack of delicate saucers into our already overflowing cabinets. Both she and my grandmother had a passion for collecting dishware, often complaining as they strategized where to store their latest finds. Here I was, clutching a blue willow plate and devising my own plan to fit it among the mismatched Mikasa and Fiesta dishes, along with faded plastic cups from Chuck E. Cheese. Just like her, I bought it—and stashed it away.
It occurred to me that I, too, had spent a significant part of my adult life indulging in antiquing. As a child, I would accompany my mother, marveling at her excitement over vintage Hoosier cabinets (a term I can still recall without reaching for Google) and the way light danced off the bases of kerosene lamps. Fast forward to now, and I found myself immersed in the treasure troves of vintage items lining the backroads of West Tennessee.
Caught up in this whirlwind of self-discovery, I became aware of my hands. I really looked at them, and it was like seeing my mother’s hands in action—wiping the supper table or folding laundry in the La-Z-Boy after a long day in the garden. Those hands, red from the heat of dishwater or gently supporting a toddler learning to walk, were now mine. From my long fingers, perfectly suited for a nearly 6-foot-tall woman, to the pronounced knuckles and thin wrists that haven’t changed much since high school—these were her hands, and I was now the keeper.
My thoughts kept swirling. One moment it was the plate, then my hands, which led me to baking, and finally to cookies. My mother’s chocolate chip cookies were legendary. While I may not have inherited her baking prowess, my kids certainly have a penchant for my version. They plead for them at 9:30 p.m. on a school night after I’ve navigated the challenges of third-grade homework, Common Core, and some unexpected mishaps. But I digress.
They beg, I insist. My mother re-emerges in me during those moments—at 9:30. On a school night. There’s no escaping it. Sliding those warm, gooey cookies onto wax paper and knowing I’ve brought a little joy to my children, if only for a few minutes, makes it worth it. The lingering aroma of brown sugar and chocolate throughout the house, with a pile of dirty dishes awaiting my attention in the sink, reminds me why I do it. For my sister and me, my mother prepared treats like cookies, tuna noodle casserole (my favorite), and cheesecake. Now, I carry on her legacy, tired yet fulfilled, doing the same for my own kids.
As I handed over the blue willow plate to the woman behind the cluttered desk, I sighed softly. I watched her hands—likely shaped by her own mother’s influence—take the paper bag and turned to leave. And what caught my eye? Right there in the first booth on the right was a Hoosier cabinet. How had I not noticed it before? Another soft sigh escaped me, enchanted by its graceful lines and delightful color. Oh, where did I put that list again?
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In summary, the journey of self-discovery often leads us to unexpected revelations about our identities, especially as we embrace the traits and habits of our parents. The simple act of antiquing and baking can be a beautiful reminder of love, legacy, and the little things that make life special.