mothers and daughters

Photo by Kaitlyn Baker on Unsplash

I Wish My Mother Would Stop Googling Me

My cyberstalker is my mother — but it wasn’t always this way.

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My daughter moves unabashedly through this world taking up as much space as she damn well pleases.

I Want To Be Like My 12-Year-Old Daughter When I Grow Up​

My daughter moves unabashedly through this world taking up as much space as she damn well pleases. I want to be like my 12-year-old daughter!

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Because like my mother, I’m not perfect. I’m just not that type of mom.

Becoming A Mother Helped Me To Forgive My Own

I didn’t see similarities between my mother and I until years later, after I became a mother. The constant conflict hid how my mother and I are alike.

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Untitled Watercolor by Anthony Diecidue

Looking Like My Mother Is The Closest I'll Ever Be To Her

She was a mother who couldn’t mother. Mental illness absorbed my mother’s maternal soul and left a hollow shell that morphed her.

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Image via YouTube

How Binge-Watching The Golden Girls Brought Me Closer To My Mom

Thanks to The Golden Girls, I was able to see those mother/daughter dynamics play out between two adults.

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Did my mom feel alone, as if she were blamed for what happened to her? Like nobody could understand what she was dealing with?

After My Mom Died, Drinking Made Me Feel Closer To Her

When my mom died, I made a list of things that made me similar to her: My favorite color was purple, I liked to write, I loved reading, I adored cats, I didn’t wear makeup, my favorite soda was Pepsi, I lived in oversized sweaters. I was 11, so I didn’t add “I love to drink” to the list, but it crosses my mind now whenever I’m at a bar with friends, and I decide to order a cocktail.

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Image: Instagram/ roseganggg

Mothers And Daughters At The Chelsea Hotel

My mother and I may never see eye to eye on politics, and our value systems may seldom align. Sometimes it feels like we try to breach this divide; other times we dig a deeper rift.

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When I read, I imagined the characters gathered together in that backyard.

A Magic All My Own

Don’t you all see how fun this is? I wanted to cry out. Instead, I whispered, “Yeah, b-b-books are weird,” and hid Junie B. Jones in my backpack. My classmates treated books the way I sometimes treated Girl Scout girls: with cold, eight-year-old contempt.

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