I wonder if it's when, like her, you're "getting your hair done" once a week - telling ourselves that with hair like ours it's an extravagance we deserve, thank you very much, while still feeling the guilt nonetheless.
Or, when a handsome All Black or strapping policeman pops up on the telly, and you no longer idly wonder if they're single, but instead comment on what a nice young man they look like - what a lovely friendly smile - and how their mums must be so proud.
Or do we know things have shifted when our mothers start turning into their mother?s
When phone conversations with them are littered with tales of their sick, dying, or no longer as sharp as they used to be friends. Which reminds us, our mums too are getting older.
It's all of those. But I like to think all hope is not lost.
I still choose Shortland Street over Coronation Street and the ability to whip up a delicious meal from scraps and leftovers eludes me. Although even my mum may struggle to do much with the contents of my fridge.
I don't own an iron and sometimes wear wrinkled clothes. How she must despair. What must people think?
And the organisation, oh the organisation of a mother.
On Monday, December 1 my 2014 advent calendar arrived in the post. Regular as clockwork, right on schedule. Thomas the Tank Engine this year, no gender stereotypes from my mum. Through childhood and adulthood, no matter where I am in the world - it always arrives in time for the first wee door.
These days, the chocolates don't all get eaten and sometimes three or four doors will get opened at once after a forgetful few days, but that's not the point.
The point is, as long as she's around my mum will send me a cheap advent calendar with disgusting chocolate at Christmas. (And if she was planning on this being the final year, I've just gone and ruined that plan).
So if I really am turning into my mother I figure that's probably okay. Things could be a helluva lot worse.
