Sometimes I think my youngest daughter can’t possibly be mine. Her tastes and opinions are often completely opposite my own, which I can’t understand. I know my kids aren’t mini-mes, but they should fully appreciate things I love.

OK, I’m talking about crèma again. If you read my columns “Crema-less in Covington” and “Espresso and other loose ends,” you’ll remember my passion for good coffee and the hurdles I will leap to achieve such a cup. After I served my youngest a cup from my new Nespresso machine, her only comment was, “It’s just coffee.” She hasn’t had a cup since, only because she doesn’t drink coffee often, but I feel like if she does attempt to get herself one, I may block her. Can’t appreciate my coffee? Can’t appreciate my very being.

If I hadn’t birthed her from my own loins with no extraneous drugs, and she hadn’t stayed in my hospital room afterward, I would think they switched her at birth. She doesn’t look anything like me, either, but fortunately for her she does look like her father, so I don’t need to get a DNA test to prove otherwise.

I do have a partner in crèma, though. My oldest understands the experience and often enjoys a cup of joe with her breakfast. She is not only welcome to my coffee, but has participated in my obsessive ordering from the Nespresso Club. That’s all I ask, complete appreciation of that which I’m passionate. Just coffee? Harumph.

However, my youngest is the child with whom I have heart-felt conversations. She seems to share many of my personality traits. Aside from the usual “I know everything about life and coffee” twenty-something attitude, we get along well. I get along with my oldest, too, but my youngest and I jive the most. My oldest and my husband are like two peas in a pod as far as personality. Perhaps it’s because they are both ADHD. Though she has my coloring, she is a female clone of her father in stature and mannerisms.

I feel that in sharing more of my personality traits, my youngest should have more of my personal tastes. Yes, I mean the crèma. Nevertheless, I know, or I have come to learn, that we cannot expect our children to be mini-mes. The realities have been harsh as I’ve watched my daughters grow up and veer off the path in the snow of life I’ve trodden before them.

As a Catholic girl growing up in the 70s, I wanted to be an altar server. The country parishes we attended still governed themselves with pre-60s Catholic rules, as in girls/women were not allowed on the altar and thus, could not be altar servers. My female cousins, who lived in the big city, were altar servers. I felt gypped. When I had my own daughters, I placed all my hopes on them. They weren’t interested.

There are other similar stories of things I couldn’t or didn’t do when I had the chances for a variety of reasons. I hoped my daughters would take up my cause and accomplish them for me. But alas, we can’t leave our own dreams at the feet of our children. On the flip side, my daughters are far more emotionally mature than I ever thought of being. They are more self-assured and are on artistic career paths, which was one of the ideas I had in my youth. I was too afraid to pursue it, they are not.

My daughters are not mini-mes. Thank God.

Gretchen Leigh is a stay-at-home mom who lives in Covington. You can read more of her writing on her website livingwithgleigh.com, on Facebook at “Living with Gleigh by Gretchen Leigh.”. Her column is available every week at maplevalleyreporter.com under the Life section.