Person on the Page

Aunt Peach used to tell me I was Daddy’s girl. When I was a child, she reminded me often that I looked like my father.

“It’s good luck for a little girl to look like her daddy,” she said.

At the very least, I suppose, it suggested that her mother had stayed on the straight-and-narrow, and that she was unmistakably her father’s child.

When her sister Peach remarked on how much I resembled my father, Mother whined. “Why can’t she look a little bit like me? I don’t want her to grow up to look like the women on his side of the family!”

Mother believed the women in my father’s family were less attractive than the ones in hers. She described them as “sturdy” and “masculine.” Mother and her five sisters were petite and feminine. Unarguably, they were beautiful women.

“If she grows up to look like his family,” Mother predicted, “no man will ever want to marry her.”

When I was 12, my father died. Someone at his funeral told Mother how fortunate she was that I looked so much like him. I would be a constant reminder to her of the husband who loved her and a living tribute to his memory.

As a teenager, when I looked in the mirror, I saw him. My eyes, not quite as large and almond-shaped as Mother would have preferred, were his eyes. My nose, broad and turned up in a way that annoyed her, was definitely his. Even my hair, which Mother described as too thin, too straight, and an unappealing shade of dishwater, came from him.

My disposition and temperament were his, too. I was a quiet introvert, like my dad. I inherited his grit and determination. And like him, I was stubborn.

“All right, George R. Wilson!” Mother would say, calling me by my father’s name when she butted up against my stubborn streak. “You have a hard head, just like your father!”

After I grew up, I saw less and less of Daddy when I looked in the mirror. I struggled through adolescence to discover my own identity, despite Mother’s continual criticism and her disappointment in me. I achieved what I thought was autonomy. When I looked in the mirror, I saw me — my own person.

……….

Ad man Mike Sullivan created the character of Dr. Rick, the deadpan life coach who helps prevent first-time homebuyers from becoming their parents in the popular Progressive Homeowners’ Insurance TV commercials. Sullivan calls it the “parentamorphosis” campaign. The premise of the commercials is that turning into our parents, though seemingly inevitable, is something we all want to avoid.

Portrayed by actor Bill Glass, Dr. Rick trains first-time homebuyers not to fall into their parents’ habits of giving uninvited advice to strangers, turning on speakerphone in public places, commenting aloud on the appearance of blue-haired strangers, and exclaiming about the prices of menu items at restaurants.

While Sullivan’s ad concept is intended to make us laugh at ourselves (and, of course, to sell insurance), it speaks to a serious concern among aging people. As we move further and further from our adolescence and young adulthood — that time when we gained independence and autonomy — will we sadly fall into the bland behavioral patterns we observed as children? Will we succumb to embarrassing habits pre-determined by our genes? Will we become our parents?

Admirable parents abound, I’m sure. Some aging people look to their mothers and fathers as role models, hoping to inherit their best attributes — kindness, generosity, courage, sensitivity to others, wisdom.

My mother and I had a troubled relationship. I could never measure up to her expectations. I wasn’t pretty enough, or outgoing enough, or devoted enough to her to win her approval. She was a master at psychological warfare. The last thing I wanted to do was grow up to be like her.

When I had children, I was determined not to fall into the parenting habits I was subjected to as a child. I dreaded the possibility that I might unconsciously treat my two daughters as I had been treated. That I might, despite my best efforts, do what my mother had done.

Only my daughters can judge how successful I was. I can say with confidence, though, that we enjoy better relationships than I ever could have had with my mother.

……….

Now that I’m in my 60s, when I look in the mirror, I see her.

I see Mother’s eyebrows and the graceful curve of her jawline. Her hair, which never turned gray even when she reached her 90s, is now my hair. Her skin, which was virtually wrinkle-free as she aged, is my skin.

But do I also sometimes see her expression of continual dissatisfaction on my own face now? Is there a hint of the disappointment I saw in her eyes when she looked at me now discernible in my eyes? Is there a shadow of her irritability on my face? I want to say no. But I think I see it.

I now suffer from the same age-related physical complaints that bothered Mother. I ache occasionally in the same places she ached. As I get older, my body looks more and more like hers.

When I hear myself sometimes saying things in her caustic tone of voice, I try to stop myself, but the words come anyway.

When I look in the mirror and see Mother, is it a sign that I need to confront the hurt I still feel? That I need to work through the pain I believe she caused and allow myself to heal?

Or am I just walking a pre-determined path into old age? Am I simply, and inevitably, becoming my mother?

I hope not. But I wonder.

……….

Cover Image by Lisa at Pexels