Gals, have you ever taken an action, said something or moved a body part and thought, “That’s my mother!” Like it or not, we all become our mothers. That’s not a bad thing if we had great mothers, but for someone who didn’t, it could be a daunting reality.

I for one had a great mom and remembering her today, five years after her passing, I share with you the joys and sorrows I may or may not have shared with her. The hard memories are the ones that made me dislike my mother. Until she died she had an opinion about whether or not I was wearing my hair right or dressing to her liking.

One crinkled polyester hem-less brown pantsuit in the 1980s was a constant sore subject. She hated it. But every time I wore it — including once to the Country Music Association Awards show — people complemented me. Versatile with a variety of accessories from scarves to antique topaz jewelry (hers, worn at CMA), it was a go-to outfit. It wears well — even as pajamas in the hospital as I did with her the later years of her life, 2010-13. It was comfortable and will never wear out. You might still see me today in them — because the classic antique hangs in my closet.

Some of her bodily habits could be annoying. 

My father hated her laughter, it was a family trait and one I’m glad I inherited, though sometimes in my life it has stayed dormant. Certain ways she did things, or talked, interrupting when you talked or never listening because she had so much to say. Guess that’s one of the reasons I grew up loving to hear other people’s stories. I learned to listen and expect the same in return. I’m probably becoming my mother.

What I’d rather remember today are the things that made me love her, naturally starting at an early age. She was the homeroom mom who baked cupcakes with me (not store bought) and not only sent them to school, went with me to the class. She was a Girl Scout leader for my sister’s age, but often when possible I tagged along.

Mom was my biggest supporter, a cheerleader. Whether it was sitting night after night by my side — reading and doing fifth-grade homework all the while I was hating schoolwork — or later pitching impossible odd entertainment projects that motivated and inspired me to achieve all that I have done and will continue to do. She was a critical thinker I depended upon because she didn’t veto my ideas, she just helped to improve them.

She still holds the standard for “best cook” as will most mothers, but mine really was. We often said there was not a better restaurant in town. And she not only knew how to make the dishes, she set a fine table — loved themes especially during the holidays. I inherited many of those things, but living alone, I seldom — yet — do what she did. Sometimes I hit the mark. I am my mother’s daughter.

I guess what lets me know I am becoming my mother are the little things no one would notice because they were the things I saw in her but never expected to see in me. A slant of a hand, a moan or a phase the way she would say it. Things that pop out when you least expect them and you have to admit, “That’s my mother.”

I miss her every day but especially on Mother’s Day. I missed a lot of them in Nashville, but I could always call and wish her good day before going on with what I wanted to do.

Guys, you know what I mean — and by the way, chances are you married someone who reminds you of your mother.

Ladies, you’re becoming her whether or not you like the results. It’s the mother-daughter love-hate dilemma that will never go away.

If you still have your mom, good or bad, celebrate her today.

VICKY BRANTON is the Teche Life Editor at The Daily Iberian.