Yes, I click.
Then realize the face staring back at me is my own. In every single photo.
After being momentarily creeped out by Facebook facial recognition technology, I was flattered.
You are the spitting image of your mother.
I'd heard it my entire life. Friends, family, strangers at the grocery store. A polite sentiment parroted by relatives trying to make small talk, I thought. A passing phrase accompanied by the occasional eye roll or cheesy grin.
But as it goes... age and wisdom, hand-in-hand.... the expression has come to carry considerable weight.
I keep my fingers crossed the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
And that goes well beyond superficiality.
Though she's incredibly beautiful on the outside - enviable bootcamp biceps included - her inside is radiant. Truly. A selfless, nurturing, servant's heart. The first in line to offer a prayer, a home-cooked meal, a momma-bear hug. Feisty and fun-loving, with this razor-sharp sense of humor that happens to make cameos at the most unexpected / hilariously inappropriate times. (See Instagram for reference. I'm not saying she was the one doing the macarena in a Darth Vader helmet. But um, she was.) We get absolutely tickled at each other's antics, and there are days - more than she knows - that I wish we lived in the same city, so popping in to get a pedicure and catch up on life wasn't a special occasion.
Mom, you are the glue. You always have been. I love being your daughter. And I'm so grateful you're my mother.