Caution: Images in Mirror May Be Closer Than They Appear

Image courtesy Wikipedia Common.

Image courtesy Wikipedia Common.

Every once in a while, I’ll look in the mirror and see a face that’s not my own.

Now I know how that French woman with the face transplant feels. At least she got a stranger’s face. Not me. The face I see is my mother’s.

I’ve never been one of those mini-me kids, who are the spitting image of their parents. If I were, I guess I’d be used to this by now. Which is not to say I’d like it. After almost 20 years of clogged drains, my husband recently cut off his Fabio-like mane, and people keep saying how much he and our son look alike. My son doesn’t like it one bit, and quite frankly, I can relate. At least he doesn’t look like me anymore.

At least my mother is not a bad person to look like. She’s quite lovely and I’m not just saying that, mom.

Not only does she have great eyebrows and a killer smile, she also has a full range of super powers I’d be happy to develop: eyes in the back of her head, a knack for being able to let me know what she is thinking with just a look, and the ability to fling guilt rays at me from a thousand feet away.

According to my son, I’ve mastered the first two. But practice though I may on my husband and friends, the guilt thing is still really challenging. Maybe it’s because Koss is only six and hasn’t developed the sophisticated sensitivity to respond to guilt yet. Right now all he does is cry when I try to guilt him into doing something he doesn’t want to, which doesn’t exactly make me feel better. And even worse, it doesn’t exactly make him do what I want him to.

I always thought that if applied wisely, guilt was hereditary, easily inflicted, and would last a lifetime. Why doesn’t it work on my two guys? Is this yet another Christmas/Hanukah, Easter/Passover, Let’s Ignore the Problem/Let’s Talk the Problem to Death, Bacon-Wrapped Shrimp/Brisket and Gefilte Fish complication in this Jewish/Goyish marriage of mine?

Back to the mirror. It’s a weird thing to see these resemblances creep up. It’s not really about aging (although I certainly have issues with that). When I picture my mom in my mind, I’m actually older than the age she was then, and fatter, and not nearly as pretty.

I should be flattered when I see her face in mine. What could be better than seeing one of the people you love the most in your own reflection? At the same time, what could be worse than looking in the mirror and seeing the one person who can push all of your buttons? I’m tempted to tell myself to sit up straight and not to wear so much makeup.

It’s not just my mother’s face I see glimpses of in the mirror. There are times when I hear her voice in my head, and it can get a little bit irritating. “Cut it out, you’ll leave fingerprints,” “Did you write a thank you note,” and “Hurry up, we’re going to be late,” are all on an endless loop on my mom soundtrack.

I can also hear her telling me, “You are smart and kind and a good friend,” or “You can do anything you set your mind to,” on a pretty regular basis. And she never stopped telling me she loves me. She still tells me, almost every single day, and sometimes more often than that.

So when I tell my son I love him, and he says, “I know that mom. You only tell me that like, a million times a day,” I just smile, and look into his eyes that are so much like my mother’s.

You’ll appreciate it someday, kid.

And by the way, mom, I do too.

Am I the only one who sees others in my mirror and hears voices in my head? Email email

Originally published in Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 12, 2006.

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