Turning into my Mother

“I’m turning into my mother”

I say in dismay, recognising her in the tone of my voice, my mannerisms, the size of my nose.

Don’t get me wrong, I do love her.
From the bottom of my heart to the tips of my toes,

But seriously.

If I’ve bought a new bag, put on a few pounds, made a bad decision, or I’m just feeling down…
She always knows.

She knows my flaws and so much more and I wish she’d just KNOCK BEFORE she opens the door!

There’s no boundaries, no peace, no distance, no space.
She texts like she’s part of some SMS race,
And heaven forbid I put stuff on my face!
(I really don’t wear that much makeup at all mum…)

I’m turning into my mother. I think I’ve got her smile.
I’ve got her love of language. (The word is logophile.)

I’m turning into my mother. I’m starting to get her hands.
I’ve got her love of crafting and (some of) the patience it demands.

I’m turning into my mother. And I’m hoping that will mean
I get her kindness
Her integrity
And everything in between.

I’m turning into my mother, and I can’t believe it’s true.

Because mumma,
We’re not perfect,
But I’m proud to be so like you.

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