Though crooked, unbecoming and odd as the spoon might be its my favourite because its self molded and tailored for this precise reason, me.
Is it every child’s dream to mimic his or her parents or actually be a striking resemblance of both or either one? Or is it just part of natures grooming path ways? Whatever the case may be, I remember I worshipped the ground my parents walked on.
If it was not the long hours make up attempts spend infront of the mirror trying on different shades of blush, lipstick and mascara, when I should have been checking out how ugly I looked while crying
I was always told I look ugly when I sulked or cry and told to go look myself in the mirror and save the embarrassment!
Then it was the dressup play where I played ‘fashion week’ toying with her clothes and high heeled shoes as a modle.I could not wait to be exactly like her, my mother.
Other times if one was lucky to be a fly on the wall, he or she would find further evidence as we played house and the roles we assumed were characteristic of mom or dad.
Indeed, they were the staff heroes are made of ( they still are of cause but there were years when I did not share the same sentiments. You guessed right : adolescence).
I wanted to be a teacher once upon a time. Perhaps because both my parents were. However somewhere along the way as nature steered on taking care of her normal business I developed, out grew my thoughts and seriously found it annoying that people thought I looked anything like my mother.
My hands for starters are a copy cat of my mom’s, though smaller in size, my father’s faulting DNA I am told, his were smaller for a male his size. He was a giant of a man. I am obviously big boned as well.
The way I carry myself, poise etc, like,
come on! I knew I looked more like my father – handsome. I didn’t mind dispite being a girl and all because, I doted the guy. This also spurred my rebellion towards girl or womanhood.
With adolescence comes finding ones self and daily battles acrew between parents and children. Comments from friends and family exclaming the uncanning likeness to my mother were obviously not well received.
Could they not see: I never nagged, most certainly was not the uptight stereotyped victorian, who shunned from discussing the very core truths every girl should hear from her mother.
Maybe that is how her own custom had deep rooted its own DNA but i was not a willing candidate. I rebelled and chose to be a free spirit more daring and optimistic to the core like my father.
I crabbed whatever chance that arose to shock her and hopefully get her loosened up a little. I also had a sense of humour, something she obviously lacked,
could this people be more blinder!
My father, got all the glory and died with a halo still towering above his head. I have his mouth (literally) and I love it! However with his absence came real introspection: I hated, loved and embraced what I sow.
Being a woman like my mother was no mistake and I was her daughter not adoptive
as I sometimes managed to full myself into believing.
Like the time she slapped me on the face
so hard I hit the floor and only realised as stars hoovered above my head . She had felt embarrassed at my undisguised reluctance to wash the dishes in her friend’s presence.
My mother rose above the challenge of raising six children and being the sole provider for the most part of our lives and manage the tuitions of all six yet still put a smile on.
I got married and she sow me through my first child and I appreciated and hunted for more traces of our likeness. No longer did I ran from my true calling and self.
I am told I am selfless, passionate, understanding, beautiful and humble like my mother. Funny, optimistic, a mediator and flexible like my father and I smile knowing the verisimilitude in the words. I am living proof the different genes all can inhibit one host- myself.