As I gaze into the mirror, I find my mother’s visage looking back at me—her pronounced jawline, deep-set eyes, high forehead, and gently sloping nose. Fourteen years have passed since her death, making this moment both unsettling and comforting, a unique form of connection. During my youth, I never recognized the similarities, but at 41, as the softness of my face fades and the passage of time becomes evident, I see her features emerging.
My new thick brown tortoiseshell glasses amplify this resemblance. My mother was never without her spectacles, which she wore from the moment she woke up until bedtime, even swimming in them. I vividly remember her bobbing above the waves, her curly red hair pinned up, elegantly executing her breaststroke. She frequently invested in stylish frames, much to my father’s dismay. “They’re the one accessory you wear constantly,” she’d argue, adding that they were prominently displayed right on her face. Her frequent trips to Europe for her fashion career often resulted in unique glasses that no one else in the U.S. would have. Each new pair took me a few days to adjust to, and when she passed away abruptly from cancer at 56, I was devastated to receive her latest pair, still in a plastic bag along with her medications and bedside lip gloss.
I was born when my mother was 30, and my most vivid memories of her are from her 40s—now my current age. To me, she was always enchanting, but perhaps she viewed herself differently in her compact mirror. As her red hair began to gray and fine lines creased her face, did she perceive a faded version of who she once was? “When people say you look tired, Daisy, they really mean you look old,” she once remarked while applying her makeup.
I would watch her morning routine with fascination—moisturizing, concealing, plucking. I absorbed every detail: her graceful fingers, her sharp collarbone, her straight teeth. One day, she noticed my gaze and said, “I remember looking at my mother the same way, thinking she was old and unattractive; I could never imagine resembling her.” At that moment, I wanted to clarify my thoughts, but I stayed silent.
Now, as I navigate life without her, I recall memories I thought were lost. I see myself mimicking her habits, like curling my eyelashes to avoid hitting my new lenses, or smoothing my forehead to banish the lines between my brows. I wear glasses on hectic days to mask my tired eyes, realizing she likely did the same. It dawns on me that many people preferred her look with glasses—perhaps they felt she appeared more polished.
With the births of my children, whom she never had the opportunity to meet, I search for traces of her in their features. Does Sam have her nose? Oliver, her hair? Ellie, named after her, already sports stylish purple frames at just eight. I see her in them all, but more profoundly, I recognize her presence in myself—not only in looks but in the way I approach life and nurture my children’s individuality and style. By donning my glasses, I feel connected to the world she missed.
In this journey of motherhood, I often find myself reflecting on her influence and the legacy she left behind, a story I can resonate with deeply. For those exploring the journey of parenthood or considering options like artificial insemination, resources such as this blog post about home insemination kits and the insights from professionals at this nurse practitioner site or News Medical’s extensive resources on IVF can be invaluable.
Summary
This reflection explores the author’s evolving perception of her mother through their shared traits and habits, revealing how she navigates life as a parent while honoring her mother’s legacy. The journey of motherhood is intertwined with memories, style, and the quest for connection, as she finds her mother’s influence lives on in her children and herself.