They try to be just like mommy.
They write little tiny characters all over every square inch of paper, making a list just like mommy.
They take half the clothes off the hangers in my closet, parading around in my shoes and shirts, looking just like mommy.
They jabber away on their toy cell phones, talking while they walk, just like mommy.
They cover the coffee table with blankets, pile it high with pretend birthday cakes and food, making meals just like mommy.
They concentrate hard on their “work” on their book-turned-computer, saying, “Can you please be quiet a minute?” just like mommy.
They borrow my makeup and my lotion and my chapstick, making themselves look pretty, just like mommy.
They are two and a half and four and a half. And they want to be just like me.
But as they copy my tone, my words, my actions, sometimes I wonder: am I really living as if I want my daughters to be just like me?