Many years ago, in the midst of my rebellious teenage years, my
mother used to say:
”
Just wait until you have a daughter of your own. And I hope
she’s just like you!
”
Many years ago, in the midst of my rebellious teenage years, my mother used to say: “Just wait until you have a daughter of your own. And I hope she’s just like you!”
I always suspected that this was a form of revenge rather than a compliment.
But now that I’m a mother, it’s apparent that the age-old, maternal curse has backfired: Instead of having a daughter just like me, I have a daughter who is just like my mother.
In fact, they get along so well that I’ve begun to suspect that I am really living with a 60-something woman stuffed into the body of a third-grader. As impossible as that sounds, it would sure explain a lot of things. Like why, for instance, when my daughter was 5 years old her favorite dress up outfit was a mid-length polyester dress with a wide lace collar, a pair of white gloves, patent leather shoes, and a red, clasp handbag. While I spent my kindergarten years dressed up like ballerina or fairy princes, flitting around casting spells and all sorts of magical things, my daughter spent hers looking more like Queen Elizabeth leaving the Royal Palace for a luncheon. Strangely enough, my mother has the same outfit. You can’t just ignore a coincidence like that.
Oh, of course I love my daughter, and I’m happy she idolizes her grandmother and all that, but I can’t help wondering how I’m supposed to relate to such a puzzling child who’s so different than me.
I mean, how in the world can I ever understand a daughter who likes to embroider pillowcases? Let me tell you, I am the type of person whose sewing kit contains a bunch of dull pins, some dental floss and a stapler. I acquired my only domestic training in the home economics class I was forced to take in high school because the art classes were full. I spent the entire semester trying to thread the sewing machine, and the one time I managed to turn it on, it trapped my sleeves under the bobbin and stitched a seam up my right arm before I could pull the cord out of the wall with my foot. So you can imagine how having a daughter who knows the difference between a backstitch and a French knot would baffle someone like me.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing something wrong. But it’s not like I’m not trying. One time, when she wanted to bake homemade cookies, I bought a bucket of cookie dough and cleaned out all of the extra wrapping paper and shoeboxes that I usually stored in the oven. But I don’t think she was fooled by my feeble attempt at domesticity.
Many years ago I used to imagine having a daughter just like me. I pictured us having a great time cooking frozen pizza together, scattering shoes around, and stapling up the hems of our pants. We’d go hiking together and stay up late watching old movies – and we’d have no idea what a satin stitch is. But instead I have a mysterious daughter whose personality traits have somehow skipped a generation.
However, I noticed something strange the day she wanted me to help her sew a new dress.
“How about tye dying a T-shirt in the bathtub instead?” I suggested hopefully.
“No way!” she said, rolling her eyes. And I was shocked to see the same eye roll I used to give my own mother many years ago.
After that I began to notice other things as well. Like how we both laugh at the same corny jokes and have trouble doing long division. Or how we hum when we’re nervous or don’t like to wear socks with our tennis shoes and how we love butterflies.
The real proof came the day she decided she wanted to roller skate because she saw the other children in the neighborhood doing it. She went onto the driveway and strapped her skates and helmet on. Then she refused to let anyone help her even though she kept falling down over and over again. But by dinnertime she had taught herself how to skate like the others.
Underneath the surface, my daughter and I are more alike than I thought.
Oh, of course, now that she’s approaching her rebellious teenage years, she’s used the old eye-roll plenty of times. And when that happens, I want to tell her in my best “I’ve been there” kind of voice, that all of the rules are for her own good, and that I love her and want her to grow up to be safe and responsible and all that.
But instead all that comes out is: “Just wait until you have a daughter of your own.”
