Mom was an Air Force brat, so her parents traveled all over and instilled in her a sense of global consciousness. My father is English, and my mother was an Air Force brat. Voila global consciousness.
Her parents raised her with a love of the theatre. When she directed Fiddler on the Roof for our church group years ago, I played Tevya's youngest daughter. Turns out limelight is genetic and addictive.
Mom majored in Theatre Arts at BYU, with an emphasis in directing and a minor in English. Me, too.
When she met my dad, she left her entire family to follow him to the land of his origin (though they returned a couple years later). When I married my husband, I left my entire family to follow him to the land of his origin. Fortunately, we're close enough to visit a couple times a year.
Mom worked outside the home most of the years I was growing up. My children also have a working mother and stay-at-home father.
She eventually settled down as a legal secretary and later became a paralegal. I worked at her law firm in high school and college . . . and went to law school.
Mom reads fiction and can be relied upon to have a book at hand at all times. I read fiction and feel lost if I don't have a book nearby. Neither of us read much nonfiction outside of work.
I have my mother's hips, her struggle with weight, and my face flushes just like hers when I exercise. Speaking of her face, all that blood means that we get fewer wrinkles than the rest of you. Which is a Very Cool Thing. Mostly because I'm also her spitting image, which means I'll look just like this in a few decades:
|I know. You're jealous.|
There are, of course, some differences. I'll never have Mom's neat handwriting, I struggle to be as self-sacrificing as she can be, and I'm a tad more outgoing than she ever was. You'd think, though, that we would have butted heads as I grew, and would have constantly been at daggers-drawn since we're so similar. We weren't. (Not as much as you'd think, I mean.) I give full credit for that to her generous, wise, and loving nature. (It certainly wasn't because I was an obedient, malleable child.) She gave me room to grow and the tools to become whatever I wanted.
Is it any wonder I chose to follow her?
So are you your mother's daughter? Father's son? Do you fight it or just accept the inevitable?