My Mother, My Self

People—particularly those who know my mom—always tell me that I look like her. That I have her—ahem—grace. Only that she is more beautiful. And more sociable. And more this and more that.

Growing up, I used to really resent the comparison. Especially during those neurotic years when I thought my Mom was always after my neck. When I thought she wanted me to be her clone. How I used to really hate it when she’d walk into my room to tell me that this wasn’t the way a “lady’s” room should look like. There may have been a lot of times when I told myself that I wouldn’t be like her.

But the years away from home made me look at things from a different perspective I learned to take the comparison for what it was: a compliment. I began to see my mom as a woman of strength, a woman of faith. So when I find myself obsessing over the bathroom tiles and the creased bedsheets, I really, really know that I am my mother's daughter.

Now that I can stake a claim on motherhood, I find myself wishing that I am more like her: patient, well put together, competitive. A supermom who can juggle home, work and play and still find time for a lot more. More than anything, I wish I have her faith. I look at my daughter—whom friends refer to as my mini me—and I realize that motherhood is a matter of faith. It is a matter of giving a child an anchor from where she may draw strength and freedom so that she may soar.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy! And although I didn’t get your hair (and got your hips instead, ha ha), I thank you for giving me the two things I treasure most: roots and wings.