“You’re talking in your ‘Edna voice’ again,” my husband called after me as I headed for the downstairs, Oreo the cat close on my heels.
“What’s that supposed to mean!” I pleaded ignorance.
“You know, speaking with that high-pitched voice like your mom used to do.”
Oh! I didn’t like to be reminded that I’m turning into my Mom.
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And not only am I beginning to look like her, as a visiting aunt recently told me, but now I’m also talking in that same tone reserved for cats and kids.
I don’t know what it is, but there’s a fear that runs deep in a woman’s genes, a worry that she’ll end up behaving like her mother.
I’ve seen the look and heard the gasp from daughters Traci and Tiffany, when they’re told they look just like me. Fortunately for them, they don’t act like me — yet.
But with all the idiosyncrasies that any mother has — mine used a squeaky voice at times — it’s not surprising that we grow to imitate them.
My toddler feet strutted in my mother’s high heels, I borrowed her cologne and clothes as a teenager, and, as a young woman, I came to her for advice.
It was a quest to grow to be like her, although I didn’t realize it at the time: To follow her example of honesty, to model her ability to keep her word, and to copy her willingness to encourage others. Her love for God shined brightly throughout all her years on Earth.
And if along the way I picked up a few mannerisms that seem a bit irksome at times, I have much to thank Mother for, and how she molded my life.
I wish I could tell her how I appreciate all she gave to me. But she’s been gone for more than a few years. And I miss her still.
On Mother’s Day, I’d give anything to hear her Edna voice again.