(Last take) From You To Me.

When it comes down to it, my mother and I are very much alike. Physically, we have the same facial features, blue eyes and a rounded face. We proudly wear well polished noses that fit our delicate faces and broad cheekbones. Though we have completely different hair colors and our body figures aren’t much the same, mine being that of a taller athlete and her a beautiful stay-at-home mom several inches shorter than me, she has given me her genes and I am a carbon copy of what her and my father have provided for me. In reality, we have the same political views, the same tastes in music, and if she were my age, she would probably be my other half. If anything, my mother is my best friend, and that phrase sounds a little cliché, but there’s no other way to say it.
In many ways we have the same interests and dreams. We both see the world in the same way; we take things into our own hands by going after what we want. I chase my dreams and I’m what she’s always wanted, the college student living the college life wanting to study abroad and become a doctor. She’s a woman whose dream was to become a mother and be in a loving marriage. This is where we differ, though, because my desire is not to be a mother right away, and marriage will happen much later in my life. She is a well brought up middle-class woman who has had a pretty fulfilled life. She’s happily married and very much in love with five children who adore her. In this way, my mother lived out her life’s dream, where as I am only beginning my journey. I’ve learned my morals and beliefs from my mom. She set the standard and I followed suit. She taught me to think highly of myself and where I should be placed in modern society, working hard for my place. She’s showed me how to have an open heart. I’ve never known prejudice; I’ve always accepted people for who they are and given second chances.
Both of my parents have given me the freedom to believe what I like, even though they didn’t teach me to believe in organized religion, together they have taught me to hold my head high and own up to my opinions. I was raised in knowing I could believe anything I wanted, but in reality, both of my parents are atheists, so it was a little hard to find my own faith. Through a long journey of searching with the help of my mom and my aunt, I figured out that it was not required of me to see things any certain way, and that I wasn’t being forced to have an organized religion. My relationship in what I believe is personal and I don’t have to have other people telling me what I should or should not believe.
A specific thing that I’ve always noticed about my mom is her voice. She has this voice that just sounds like a mother’s voice, when I hear her I know everything is going to be okay. I specifically remember one time when I was bawling because I was so upset. I had gotten a bad grade and everyone was telling me that it wasn’t the end of the world, that one bad grade wasn’t going to wreck everything. But in my eyes, it was. I came home and confessed to my mom about how it was going to ruin everything I had been working toward. She looked me in the eyes and told me, “We’ll deal with it.” That’s all it took, those four simple words to make me feel like everything was going to work out just fine. She gives me the sort of comfort I can’t get anywhere else. Her vibe, her presence, is all I need to reassure myself that it isn’t the end of the world, no matter how horrible things seem.
Over time, my mother has helped me discover many things, but I’ve always been able to speak my thoughts around her. She gives me the insight of forty-something years of experience when the sixteen years of my youth are not enough. She’s sacrificed everything in order for me to have a good life. When I was younger, I didn’t really realize just how much she had given up for these sacrifices to be worth while. She pushed me when I hated her for it, and now I look back and see how much it was all worth it. I’m something like the “good child,” I guess, because I’m that sort of child every parent wishes they had. Now, I’m not trying to be conceited, I’m just telling it the way I see it. I’ve never done anything bad in my life, and for the few small things I ever did that was serious enough to have consequences, I never once took them for granted. I get the good grades and join all the right clubs so that I will have the chance to get accepted into one of the premier Universities of the world. I’ve worked hard for this privilege, this opportunity to be something great, and this desire is entirely my mother’s doing.
My mother is an amazing person, she is like no one I’ve ever met before and she supports me in everything I do. If I want to dance, she opens the doors in order for me to be able to do so. If I want to audition for a play, she encourages me that she can’t wait to see me on stage. If I want to join a sport or pick up an instrument she says to me, “Let’s do it.” And every single time I’ve quit, or become sick of my newfound passion, she tells me that next time, whatever I decide to do, will be perfect for me. She assures me that I don’t have to find my passion right this second, because I have years ahead of me full of opportunity. Over time, we’ve become closer and out of anyone in the world, my mom would be the first person I would call if anything major happened in my life. She’s become the “we” in my life. When I talk about going to college, or moving to a different country, or starting something new, it’s always “we,” like I couldn’t do anything if it weren’t for her. This is mostly true. I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish what I have today if it weren’t for her support.
When I was younger, we would take road trips to Iowa where my grandma lived. I remember one year when she was driving at four in the morning, and everyone else was asleep, and with a car full of four kids and only one adult, it was a miracle. I woke up and we pulled over by the side of the road in Colorado, I think somewhere outside of Denver. The sun was just coming up and all of a sudden, all this fog was surrounding the trees and coming up over the hills. We tried to take pictures, but none of them did the experience any justice. So we stepped out of the stuffy car, and sat on the hood of the minivan, taking in the incredible smells and mist all around us. We didn’t say much; we’re like that sometimes. We don’t need words to ruin a beautiful experience. We both knew that this was the sort of thing only she and I would share, because everyone else was asleep. It was probably one of the moments that moved us closer, because it was just for us, and we were the only ones there. We got back in the car and continued to drive, not saying much and remembering the moment with these goofy broad smiles across our faces. That’s who we are; we enjoy beauty.
My mother has a heart of gold. She takes whatever I throw at her in great stride, and she doesn’t get sick of me. I have this perception of myself that is always completely terrified everyone is always going to get sick of me at one time or another, and for some reason I don’t have that void with my mom. I mean granted, she’s my mom, but she’s the person who’s closest to me; and she doesn’t feel like a parental unit, because she’s my friend, not my mother. Well, she is my mother, but not in the sense you think when you use the word “mother.” When I was younger, I thought being best friends with your mom was dorky; that I would never be that close to my mom. Now, I don’t think of it like that. I introduce her to new music that I enjoy, most of it being the music most teenagers are “into” in this modern age, but she loves it. We share television shows that we squeal over when we watch them, and I give her books I swear she just HAS to read. Everything we do relates to each other, and I never pass up a moment to call her and tell her about my day. She’s the definition of “best friend.”