A mother's journey

In some weird Twilight Zone twist of plot, my mother, daughter and I have all switched places.

At five, Kenya has reached an age which I clearly remember being. And at 33, closing in on 34, I have amassed enough years to recall my mom at precisely this stage of life — a milestone that Hallmark has yet to recognize with a card. This nevertheless feels like one of those mind-blowing watersheds of one's passage through the universe.

Frankly, I'm of mixed mind about this. On the one hand, it's endlessly eye opening. Now when my daughter complains about being “cute” instead of “beautiful,” I can genuinely feel her pain. I also feel her joy as she anticipates a playmate's arrival, and her confusion when an adult uses a phrase like “he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer.” I can remember my own five-year-old self riding that same coaster of wonder, ending each day having learned something brand-spanking new.

I remember specifics, like sneaking a peak at the books on my parents' shelves and being completely baffled over the appeal of The Sun Also Rises when it was entirely devoid of pictures. I remember getting grounded for hitchhiking with a friend (my dad found us with our thumbs out at the edge of the sidewalk) and how I knew I'd done something wrong, but didn't nearly grasp the magnitude of the lesson he was trying to impart. I remember I dreaded having my hair brushed, and how comforting it was to fall asleep to the sounds of my parents watching TV. Almost three decades later, all of this is gold. Now I can pretty much crawl into my daughter's head at critical junctures, and conjure up her experience from her side of the fence.

On the other hand, this new reality is a killer to my conscience. Because if I can remember being five, well this kid's going to be able to remember it too. Up until now, I've been able to write off a certain amount of our interactions to the ephemeral experience of very young childhood. Surely she won't remember the time when she was three, and I promised I wouldn't get mad if she told me the truth about why she bit her friend, and then I spanked her when she confessed that she did it because it made her happy. Nope, I won't be getting away with that kind of mixed message anymore. The bad parental choices I make are written in permanent ink now.

And as for my turning into my own mother, well, let's just say I've had better psychological breakthroughs since the day I stumbled across this one. It's just too weird to realize you're the same age your mother was when you regarded her with so much big-ness. Up next: the day my daughter hits the age I am now, and conjures up an image of present-day me for inspiration. Yikes. Talk about a Twilight Zone.