Updated: November 4, 2020
Originally Published: July 18, 2015
I am not my mother. I am not. Or am I? It was during my 40th birthday celebration last year that I experienced the sudden, undeniable transformation into my mother. The realization struck me like an unexpected gust of wind while I was browsing a flea market in West Tennessee. Just as quickly, I started mentally listing the ways in which I was different from her. Laundry… wait, I need to add that to the list too.
As I inspected a blue willow plate for imperfections, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. I recalled countless times hearing my mom exclaim, “What in the world do I need with another set of dishes?” while she carefully set yet another fragile saucer into our already overflowing cabinets. Both she and my grandmother had a passion for collecting dishes, often voicing their frustrations as they plotted storage solutions. Here I stood, blue willow plate in hand, devising my own plan to fit it alongside mismatched Mikasa and Fiesta dishes, not to mention those faded plastic cups from Chuck E. Cheese. Just like her, I bought it—and tucked it away.
The memory of her fondness for dishes led to the realization that I, too, had dedicated a significant portion of my adult life to antiquing. As a child, I would walk alongside my mother, marveling at Hoosier cabinets (yes, I even knew that term without resorting to Google) and relishing the reflections in the glass of vintage kerosene lamps. And now, here I was, reveling in the treasure trove of vintage finds along the backroads of West Tennessee.
My mind raced—what was decorating my walls? How much affection did I actually have for that slightly dented tole-painted tray? Good grief! My kitchen and living room boasted not a single new piece from Kirkland’s. When was the last time I actively searched for a wall-hanging or decorative sconce? Potpourri? Forget it! I hadn’t touched that in years. Yes, I had wholeheartedly embraced antiquing, clutching it with all my might. Ugh… adding “with all my might” to the list. The list just keeps growing.
In the midst of this self-discovery in the cramped flea market booth, I glanced down at my hands. No, I mean I truly looked at them. They were just like my mother’s. It felt as if I were witnessing her hands at work, wiping down the dinner table or folding laundry in the La-Z-Boy after a long day in the garden she shared with her own mother. My hands, red from dishwater or gently supporting a toddler learning to walk, were hers. From my long fingers, suited for a nearly six-foot tall woman, to my pronounced knuckles and slender wrists that have remained unchanged since high school—they were her hands, now mine.
As I pondered this connection, I realized how the plate had led me to think of my hands, which in turn triggered memories of baking and cookies. My mother’s chocolate chip cookies were legendary. While I may not have inherited her talent, my kids plead for mine. Yes, plead—even at 9:30 PM on a school night after navigating the trials of third-grade homework and minor chaos. But I digress (and I apologize for the chaos reference in the cookie context).
They plead, I insist. My mother’s spirit comes alive in me during these late-night baking sessions. At 9:30 PM. On a school night. There’s no denying it. I am my mother. Sliding those warm, gooey cookies off the AirBake sheet onto wax paper, knowing I’ve just made my kids’ hearts sing, even if just for a few moments, is worth collapsing into bed with the aroma of brown sugar and chocolate wafting through the house and a sink full of dirty dishes waiting for tomorrow. That’s why she baked. The cookies, the tuna noodle casserole (my all-time favorite), the cheesecake—she did it all for my sister and me, and now, here I am, weary yet fulfilled, doing the same for my children.
As I handed over the blue willow plate to the lady behind the cluttered counter, I sighed softly. I watched as my mother’s hand accepted the paper bag from the woman, likely echoing the hands of her own mother. Turning to leave, I noticed something—a Hoosier cabinet in the first booth to my right. How had I overlooked it? Another sigh escaped me, for its curves and colors filled me with joy. Joy… joy… where did I set that list again?
In summary, this journey through a flea market sparked a profound recognition of how my identity mirrors my mother’s. From the plates I collect to the cookies I bake for my children, the connection to her is undeniable, showcasing the beautiful cycle of motherhood.