Recently, my daughter announced she wants to be a writer. “Like mother like daughter,” she says.
My DNA has gifted her with my bubble butt and stubby toes. I apologize in advance for the bubble butt. Buying jeans will never be fun.
I rock a mean air guitar and will bust a move anywhere the mood strikes. She does not join in my imaginary 80’s rock band but covers her eyes with embarrassment.
I could spend all day in the kitchen. She merely passes through long enough to grab a snack.
She likes bangles and bracelets piled high up her arm and necklaces with bobbles and bits. I scarcely wear an accessory except for earrings.
I love that she wears her independence literally and figuratively. She is of me but not mine.
Dueling laptops has become our version of matching outfits.
We spend afternoons sitting in the sun. Typing in 2 part harmony.
She hunches over her keyboard. Her lip curls into a tiny Elvis sneer as her eyes roll upwards searching through a mental filing cabinet for just the right phrase.
She’s writing about a girl who’s taking on the world. With magical powers, a mean right hook, leather pants, and buckskin boots.
She carries a notebook and pen. In case words come to life at inopportune moments.
She is like her mother. A talker with words galore. A storyteller. The stubborn set of her brow. The flying fingers. The need for fuzzy blankets and a quiet corner to make a nest for writing.
Making an inheritance of heart and passion binds tighter than DNA.
She has my stubbornness too – but that’s a much much longer story.
What parts of your heart have your children inherited?