No one ever suggests I've become my mother. More's the pity.
I saw myself in Clementine the other day. She was cramming her sister's foot into a sparkly tennis shoe, sighing and saying (with great frustration): "Work with me, Charleigh!"
Then she put her hand on her hip and said to her brother: "Cade, I have a job for you. Go out on the porch and get the cat bowl for me, ok?"
Cade, nine years her senior, looked down at her and back up at me. "She sounds exactly like you, Mom!" he laughed. And there, in his relaxed stance and expression of patient amusement, I saw again: his dad, my ex-husband.