There is a woman who lives in my house. She has the same closed-mouth smile and almond-shaped eyes that grace my own face. She is a pasta sauce aficionado, has the ability to make a dime go the length of a dollar and, equipped with her trusty decade old iron, the woman could put a crease in water. For over 20 years, we have called her Mom, but that isn’t her name. Rumor has it that this woman actually existed before my own life began. She was an easy-going, spunkier, louder version of the woman I know today. This is for her.

Firstly, my apologies for such a late introduction. You must understand, it’s very hard to see a mother outside of being a nurturer, fixer and lover. She wears the hats so well, it is hard to believe she wasn’t born with them. With age, I’ve become aware that you and my mother are not separate entities. You co-existed, but with the demands of three children, she led the way while you graciously stepped aside. I must thank you for that because I assure you there were countless times when only a full-force mother could have saved the day. But I also remember days when you took over. Days when my mother had a little more fire to her. Days when she was not flustered by laundry and dishes and carpool, but instead sang songs in the kitchen while she made crepes filled with Nutella and powdered sugar. I see much more of you now that I’m older, and it makes me aware that you and her have more in common than I thought. Neither of you wanted to be PTA president. Both of you have a nail polish collection comprised entirely of marginally different muted pinks (seriously, buy one more “love you mauve-ly” and I’m cutting up your Target card). And between the two of you, my road rage was inevitable.

I know that both of you love me very much. And I hope that the two of you love each other very much. Co-existence can’t have always been easy. I imagine there were times when you didn’t feel like the best mom, nor did you feel like the woman you aspired to be. So what were you? I’d argue that the two of you have always been exactly what I needed. Because in a way, you both raised me. It was she who changed diapers and made chicken soup and hung my Crayola catastrophes on the fridge like they were divine works of art. But it was you who I unknowingly argued with at 16, mostly because I thought you to be an overbearing parent and not a person who was allowed their own opinions. It was you who poured me my first glass of wine. And it is you who has convinced her that my bedroom will always be a mess, so just let it go.

There will come a time, maybe soon or maybe not, where neither of you are as directly involved in my life. I will be my own woman with passion and temper and joy and fear. But no matter how far I drift, I will feel you beneath me and above me. You are both the soil and the sunlight I need to grow, keeping me grounded while letting me rise. To the woman my mother has always been and the supermom you will forever more be, thank you for everything. For without the two of you, I would not have become me.