Is it my imagination or are there more mother/daughter duos out there these days who more closely resemble daughter/daughter teams? The only way to tell them apart is by their foreheads. Mom’s brow is firm, courtesy botox, while her daughter can still scrunch hers up in displeasure.
With nips, tucks, workouts, hair colouring and a lack of great clothes for women over 50 (so we borrow our daughter’s), young women have to feel their mothers breathing down, not just theirs, but their boyfriend’s necks. In my day, unless your mom was Mrs. Robinson, your boyfriend fantasized about her baking, not her.
One of my girlfriends, 57, who works out, sports a great hairdo and cool wardrobe, boasts, “I love when I’m with my 30-something daughter and they think we’re sisters — even better if that happens with my 21-year-old.”
Naturally, daughters can’t stand it. Drop dead gorgeous, Samantha, 21, says, “Guys told me all through high school they loved my mom and it really bothered me.”
My own daughter, 21, après one too many sister remarks, snaps, “What? Do I look like a 50-year-old woman?”
So what’s a mom to do? Cancel the gym membership and embrace her outer greyness? No, says Dr. Karyl McBride, author of Will I Ever Be Good Enough? Healing The Daughters Of Narcissistic Mothers. “If a mother takes good care of herself and doesn’t age as much, she can be a good role model for her daughter.”
Just because you look like her best friend, don’t try filling the role, cautions McBride.
“These days, mothers and daughters share information about dates and sex. It isn’t appropriate. A daughter needs to be able to look up to the mother as the parental figure.”
Recently, I read that Kate Hudson had felt intimidated by her mother Goldie Hawn when she was younger. Most of us aren’t as successful or as gorgeous as Goldie, so, hopefully, our daughters wouldn’t feel that way, nor would we want them to.
In my own house, officially there’s no competition. However, my daughter, unofficial winner of the swimsuit competition, is now taking me on professionally, which I did not see coming. Recently, I told her a story idea of mine, and she told me she was going to write about it for her school newspaper.
Shocked, I told her, “You can’t. It’s my idea.”
“Don’t you know you never tell another reporter your story ideas?”
There’s only one way to win this, I figure.
Wait until those great new jeans are all alone in your closet and you’re out. We’re the same size after all.
Just like sisters.
