Sweet and bitter

My sister posted a blog about how my mom used to draw curly-haired smiley faces, and I commented about how I loved them so much. It made me remember a couple of other things I appreciate and admire about my mom, which reminded me that no matter how much I do not want to admit it, I am turning into her in a lot of ways... But I'm fighting it too, because all of the good things seem to be clouded by a common factor, and the things that she is secretly are not things that should be secret.

The curly-haired smiley faces. I'm pretty sure she still puts them on things. When she would label my new school notebooks she would put one next to my name. Somehow the extra two seconds to add the face and make it more special was a sign that she is secretly creative and caring.

The way she wrapped gifts. The paper always came out the right size and the folds were always perfect and straight. She is secretly a perfectionist.

Mom always dished up our meals at the stove. There was never "Please pass the..." at our table. She always managed to perfectly divide our (too big) portions onto our plates and there were almost never leftovers. Of course there was no need for seconds as we were very well over-fed with processed foods, but it always amazed me that she could "eyeball" the scoops, etc. and not have to go back and put other scoops to even things out. Proof that she's secretly smart and perceptive.

I often make fun of the fact that my mom only knows how to cook a few things. Some of these things were really, really good... Proof that she's secretly a good cook. I wonder now if the repetitive and unadventurous nature of her meals might have been because she didn't want to make mistakes, so she just stuck with what she knew would work. I'm pretty sure that she felt good about herself on the occasions she actually bothered to make a real meal, and fear of letting us down, and letting herself down, kept her from doing anything risky.

Now I'm off to do something with my daughter that I never did with my mother. We're going to bake a pie. We're even going to construct a pretty lattice top for it. Of course, it might not come out perfectly, and I might get stressed out about it, and call it ugly when it's finished, but I'm going to do it anyway because maybe in 20 years Lo will have all sorts of things to reminisce and love about me. And hopefully, when she reaches the age where she starts turning into her mother, it won't be terrifying, and the one thing that stands out as an inherited trait will not be "I am anxious about everything, and paralyzed by a fear of failure, and sometimes I get so overwhelmed by that fear that it simply isn't worth it to try."

My fear of my own anxiety should not be a driving force in my life, but it is. I know my mom did the best she could, and I know that she honestly loves us, and that she tried. I guess I just don't understand why she never seemed to fight against the fear, and that makes me even more determined... So that nobody will ever have to wonder that about me.