“Don’t grow old,” my mother advised.

What am I supposed to do with this nugget of maternal wisdom? Was she really recommending a tragic early death through cancer, car wrecks or suicide?

None of these poses a particularly good alternative to old age.

My advice to my own daughters is much more prosaic:

“Always pay off your credit card balance in full.”

“If you want to have children, pick a profession where you can work part time.”

“Don’t have a job that requires you to wear pantyhose every day.”

I try not to burden them with unwise wisdom.

I guess my mother was really just reiterating her overall philosophy: “Don’t be like me.”

Another impossible admonition.

Almost every woman I know fears turning into her mother, and, despite their fervent attempts to be different, almost all of them bear at least some traces of their earliest model. Like baby ducklings imprinting on the first creature they see, we just can’t help it.

I’ve seen myself turn into my mother in ways I vowed to avoid, such as assuming political kinship with people who are offended when I trash Republicans. But I also know that some of my mother’s lovely traits infuse me, such as a great sense of humor and a strong commitment to social justice. My adolescent embarrassment made me blind to so much that is worthy of incorporation.

Perhaps growing old is the very act of integrating and accepting the imperfect and attractive attributes of both our mothers and ourselves. If so, it’s to be embraced, not dreaded.

By Lorrie Goldin

Labels: Lorrie Goldin

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