When my boyfriend called me a “future Facebook Mum”, I’ll admit I was slightly offended. No hate to all the Facebook Mums out there, but I know for a fact that my mother, Charlene, is a Facebook Mum. All the signs are there: she shares posts about missing dogs from Arizona with the caption “Shared in Newcastle xx”, and she tags me in “I love my daughter” posts every other day, which I promptly untag myself from – don’t want to lose my nonexistent street cred.

She, like many other Facebook Mums, moves in packs. When she posts pictures of me (which equally get removed from my tagged), her friends are out in full force commenting lovely things. While I appreciate that this is the most validation anyone could receive, hidden behind my cringe for these posts is a devout promise to myself that I will not become a ‘Facebook Mum’.

“Whenever I see a miniskirt in Urban Outfitters, I hear her voice asking where, indeed, is the rest of it?”

Everyone has always told me that I’m exactly like my dad, just with hair. As a Geordie, Sam Fender’s Spit Of You is reminiscent of my dad and I (“They say I’m the spit of you / And they’re not wrong”). I’ve always worn this title like a crown, a self-proclaimed “daddy’s girl”. Now, as I get older, I can no longer hide from the truth: I am turning into Charlene.

I have always reflected my mother in some ways. Whenever we went on holiday, she was the epitome of an airport dad, wanting to be there hours before check-in. She starts work at 9 am but gets the 6:45 bus there (it is an hour bus journey). Similarly, I’d have a meltdown if we left for school any later than 7:15 am, despite not starting until 8:40 am (a 40 minute drive). Even now, I will walk to Sidge 45 minutes before my lectures even start. We hate running late; if there’s an earlier bus, best believe we’re on it.

I asked my dad, who knows us both the best, for any other ways I’m like my mum. “Stubbornness” was the first thing he said. As much as I pride myself on holding my own even if I’m wrong, (which I never am, by the way), my mother is more stubborn than I am. While this led to clashes and arguments as a teenager, it has nevertheless made me a head-strong and confident woman, who argues with anyone who does her wrong.

I remember going shopping with my mum when I was younger, when she would hold a pair of holey jeans or a mini skirt that I liked, and ask: “where’s the rest of it?” As a moody teen, I would roll my eyes and beg for it anyway (“I’ll wear tights, please just let me wear it!”). When I was fourteen, I bought a black bodysuit to go with some holey jeans for Battle of the Bands. Charlene, being the true Facebook Mum she is, took to the site to ask her friends “who agrees?” with her judgement. As a testament to my inherited stubbornness, I wore it anyway. (In case you were wondering where this bodysuit is today, it is still an absolute staple in my Wednesday Revs wardrobe.) However, whenever I go to Urban Outfitters and see a mini skirt, I now hear my mother’s voice asking “where, indeed, is the rest of it?” – because I refuse to pay £50 for a skirt I mistook as a belt.

“Termly Instagram photo dumps are not too dissimilar from your mum’s ‘Christmas 2023’ Facebook folder”

My mum has always been known as ‘Mrs Kodak’, because she insists on taking photos of everything. Family day out? At least 40 photos. Coffee and cake at a cafe? At least five different angles. Don’t get me started on bottomless brunch. When you’re a child, the last thing you want is to have your photo taken while you’re doing something fun. But with hundreds of photos of my friends, impressive college buildings, and vanity-inspired selfies, I suddenly realise that I am turning into ‘Miss Kodak’. And I’m not alone; no one at Cambridge wants to admit it, but the termly Instagram photo dumps are not all that different from a Facebook album titled ‘Christmas 2023’. The only real differences are our completely witty – and totally not overdone – captions where we try to incorporate some kind of pun on the name of the term (see: reLENTless, Michaelmess, etc. etc.)

I think the excessive photos, and my being an Instagram fiend, warranted my boyfriend’s comment, and while I won’t be sharing lost dog posts any time soon, it’s clear that the older I get, the more I see Charlene in myself, Facebook Mum and all – a part of me I’m increasingly fond of.