Many of my middle-aged women friends joke about the shock and horror of morphing into their mothers, whether they like it or not.
I’m sometimes startled when I catch a glimpse of my mom in the mirror, especially now that I’ve stopped coloring my hair red and I’m salt and pepper, as she was.

Get beyond appearance, and not only am I clearly my mother’s daughter but I’m also the product of growing up with my stepmother.

My mom and dad got divorced when I was 3 years old and Dad married Debbie when I was 5. That means I don’t have many memories before they were both part of my life.
These two women could not have been more different.

My mom was a tomboy. She wore men’s jeans and tennis shoes because they were practical. She lopped off her hair into a short wash-and-go ‘do because fast and easy were priorities. Makeup for her was eyeliner and Chapstick.
My stepmom was a girlie girl. I remember her taking a curling iron and makeup case into the bathhouse at a campground. She had maybe a dozen perfumes on her dresser and a wardrobe that overflowed her closet, into my closet then to the laundry room.
My mom worked hard, generally following her day job with side hustles including bartending, waitressing and preparing taxes. My stepmom quit her job at Kmart when she and my dad got married, and though she talked a lot about going to college to become a nurse, mainly I remember watching General Hospital and grocery shopping with her after school.

My mom relied on prepared foods — I ate cases of boxed macaroni and cheese, not to mention prefab scalloped potatoes — and fast food. My stepmom took pride and pleasure in making home-cooked dinners, including taking classes to learn Chinese cooking when that was pretty exotic for a Midwesterner.
My mom was a tough disciplinarian. Her rule on curfew was that I wasn’t rolling into the driveway at midnight but already in the house, sitting down, shoes off. My stepmom pulled me aside and said, hey, I know you’re not going where you say you’re going, if you call me and let me know you’re OK, I won’t tell your dad.
My mom listened to country music including Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton and Conway Twitty. My stepmom liked to crank the stereo to deafening levels, shaking the windows with Fleetwood Mac and Air Supply.
My mom bought me comic books and a subscription to Mad magazine. My stepmom took me prom dress shopping and to get my ears pierced.
They did have a few similarities.
My mom and her two sisters were like the Three Musketeers. My stepmom loved her parents and siblings, and her mom would often come with us on family vacations.
They both insisted I write thank you notes. My mom held my graduation presents until I showed her I’d written the thank you note for each one. My stepmom got furious with me when I was in college because she thought I hadn’t sent her sister a thank you note for my Christmas present.

I’ve been thinking about them both this week. Monday was my stepmother’s birthday. She died in 2004. Saturday was the 17-year anniversary of my mom’s death.

Though I look like my mom, when I scan my heart and my life, I see the strong influence of both of my mother figures.
In a few areas, it’s either-or — I love clothes and jewelry like Debbie and I take pride in my career like my mom — but I find the blends even more interesting. I value punctuality and find it rude when people are late, but I also get that life’s messy and some rules are meant to be broken.
So I’ll put on some outlaw country and 1980s rock, sing along to both and give thanks that these two very different women showed me two different models of femininity and mothering. I wouldn’t be who I am without both of them.

Related posts:

• My mom was the opposite of a helicopter parent, and that extended to our sex talk
• If someone you love died today, would you have regrets?
• In honor of Mother’s Day, I got friends in low places