Like Mother, Like Daughter

When I was little, I fretted that I was too much like my father and not enough like my mom. People were always telling me how I looked like him, took after him in talents of singing and art. Since he was not a part of my life, I resented it. I practiced my mom’s facial expressions in the mirror, worked endlessly to become a lefty, like her. It overwhelmed me with guilt, thinking that maybe I was more like my dad, a mere stranger who tugged at my heartstrings.

I look nothing like my mom, an ever prominent and influential figure in my life. Blonde hair, blue eyes and tanned skin conflict with own dark hair, brown eyes and pale complexion. Her confidence and aptitude for business are absent from my self-conscious, scatter brained persona. Despite my tireless, kindergarten effort, I am right-handed. I have straight little eyelashes from my half-Japanese father and the name of his Japanese mother. There is little on the outside that can be tied to my mother. But her resilience, wit, compassion, love of animals and all things old, tattered, antique, vintage – these are the gifts from my mother.

Literal gifts from my mom: vintage beret, vintage floral dress. h&m mustard tights, vintage boots, vintage Neiman Marcus coat, vintage wicker purse (from my mom’s best friend…kindred spirits!) and thrifted belt.

The irony is that my sister Amanda, who might as well be a clone of my mother, has little affection for vintage clothing or antique treasures. Neither does Nicole, although Tessa seems to appreciate it more than the others. It couldn’t make me happier, because my mom spoils me with vintage dresses, hats, shoes, jewelry, linens, furniture and odds and ends that my sisters would turn their noses up to. Every once in awhile, I’ll get an amazing care package full of tons of vintage goodies.