The Cruelest Mirror
 
It was bad enough that, when I reached the age of majority, I had to start taking responsibility for my body. What with its quirks and angles and lumps odd freaky movements. Leaving the convenient rose-colored glasses behind at Mom's place.
 
Where is she now, when I'm staring into that cold, cruel mirror - needing her reassurances that I'm not as flawed as I appear?
 
No - I'm not talking about the dressing room mirror in the swimsuit department. I'm talking about my CHILDREN.
 
I kind of thought that after the whole spread-eagle birthing process, and maybe the whole nursing breast balloon circus, that parental lessons in humility would relegated to the occasional breaches of privacy in the lieu.
 
Not so! Lucky lady that I am, I'm treated to lessons in humility every hour, on the hour, around the clock. Twice as often on Tuesdays.
 
Sure, we all have our quirks (I tell myself.) But since my teens, it seems, I've stopped focusing as much on them (minutia, after all; I am woman!) instead taking a maternally-appropriate ostrich approach to self-fixation.
 
So what if I walk with the grace of a duck? Or if I'm a teeny tiny bit stubborn? Or melodramatic? OR, you know, completely insane. It really doesn't affect my daily life does it? Just as well I push those things to the back of my mind while I finish folding laundry to "Sing-Along Kazoo Oldies."
 
Now, even the little luxury of denial is, well, denied me.

I knew about the parental curse: That your children will act exactly the way that you act.

What I didn't see coming is that they would ACT exactly the way that I ACT. They walk like I do. They lie on the couch in that absurdly unladylike position like I do. They pluck at their chins when nervous, just like I do. That quivering lip thing? Yikes! That hand on the hip? Not as cute as I thought it came across.

Who wants to see this? I mean, besides my husband?
 
Yes, I love them with every fiber of my being. And I've tried to forgive myself a reasonable number of imperfections, in the blissful glow of having brought these wonderful specimens of humanity into the world.
 
But I can't look away. In spite of the little mannerisms - the painful ones they inherited from you-know-who. I'm forced by my maternal nature, every moment, every day, to face my imperfections.
 
It is fundamentally inhumane to be thusly forced to accept in others the very behaviors I cringe at in myself.
 
They, of course, wander around like ducks, jutting that lower lip, plucking the chin - blissfully ignorant to the mocking.
 
It is NOT the sincerest form of flattery. It is torture. Having my most painful flaws paraded before my eyes day after day. Realizing all of a sudden, those sarcastic little comments I'm always making … not so witty after all. Kind of, oh, say, *annoying.

Like waking around a big piece of spinach stuck in my teeth, only to discover it later and wonder how many people didn't have the heart to tell me.

In the usual sort of mimicry situations, it is the *mocked who is the last to realize what has transpired.

Absurdly, this genetic case is exactly the opposite. My little carbon copies have no idea what's going on. They're just being me. I mean, themselves.

And I can't even hold it against them. Shoot.