For years I heard my mom say, "I'm turning into my mother!" Now, as I near 30, I find myself saying the same thing. The funny thing is, we all pretend to sound horrified about it, like it is a terrible thing. Secretly, though, we are delighted, and strangely comforted, to watch our mothers seep up through the cracks of our adult lives and revisit us.
For example, every morning memory of my childhood includes a picture of my mom in her robe, pulling little crumpled tissues out of the pockets and lightly blowing her nose. She always had little crumpled tissues in her pockets. The pockets of her robe, the pockets of her coat, the pockets in the lining of her purse. Not that she had chronic sinus issues, I don't think, but she just always had the tissues. Now and then she would offer us one if we were sniffling, but being the Hollander that she is, she wouldn't throw away a tissue until there was not one dry corner on it. Naturally, we always declined.
So now here I am, this morning, getting breakfast around for the kids, and there was a spill of milk on the table. I reached into the pocket of my robe and what did I find but a tissue. Like my Dad, however, I am a folder not a crumpler, so my tissue was neatly folded and had not yet been used, but there was a tissue in the pocket of my robe, none-the-less. Goodmorning, mom. Nice of you to pop in.