I had an argument with Rebel Dancing Daughter yesterday, and I swear I could hear my late mother’s voice channeling through me.

Here’s what happened: Rebel Dancing Daughter came downstairs in a cheetah bra and a skimpy red dress.

The dress had spaghetti straps and a low neckline. Too much bust.

The hem was way too high. Too much leg.

We were going to the mall. I crossed my arms and glared like Godzilla then said to her, keeping in mind Excellent Mothering Techniques, “Oh, HELL no! You are not wearing that.”

(My mother used to say that to me, too, minus the ‘hell.’)

Rebel Dancing Daughter shot back with, “Yes, I am!”

And I said, eyeing an outfit that was barely more than what a stripper would fling herself around a pole in, “You are not going out in public like that.”

(Those were my mother’s words, too!)

Rebel Dancing Daughter huffed and puffed and said, “Yes I am! It’s fine! This is what I’m wearing.” (I said this when I was her age, too.)

Then she crossed her arms, like mine.

And I said, “You are not.”

“You know you’re a control freak, right, mom?”

“I know it and I like it. Change.”

She sighed. It was the sigh that says, “You are an utter and ridiculous pain, mom. You are out of date and out of style. You are old.”

Fortunately, I do not care that my children think this of me.

Rebel Dancing Daughter tried to make her case. “This dress is long enough. Look! The hem comes to my fingertips.”

I peered down at her, her arms now straight and defiant by her side. “If you wear that dress and an ant coughs underneath you your dress will fly up and someone will see your va jay jay.”

“Mom!” She said that, ‘mom!’ in a loud and admonishing tone. “No one uses that word, ‘va jay jay.’”

“I just did and I am someone.”

(My mother would not have used the word ‘va jay jay,’ just to clarify, out of respect to her. Her parents were from the South so, obviously.)

“Mom!” Again, loud and admonishing. As if I needed to be admonished. I am the boss here. I am The Mother.

“You are not wearing that. You know my rules.” I put my palm to my chest, above my boobs. “Boobs in. Your boobs are not in. Your dress is too low on top, too high on the bottom. No one needs to be flashed by your bottom. Change or we don’t go.”

“Fine, fine!” Stomp, stomp, up the stairs. “Fine!”

“So,” I thought to my little self, “She will change into a new outfit now. She will be dressed appropriately.”

Rebel Dancing Daughter stomped back down. She was wearing pajama bottoms under her skimpy spaghetti strap dress. “There! I’m covered.”

We began yet again and I had to use Excellent Mothering Techniques. I rolled my eyes. “You look silly. I am not taking you out in your pajamas. What? You’re going to sleep in the mall? You’re going to take a nap at Macy’s? I’m leaving. Get dressed or I’m driving off without you.”

Rebel Dancing daughter can be rebellious. She likes to dance in high heels and go to parties. But she knows when a fight is lost. She knows when Boss Mother is not changing her mind.

Stomp, stomp, stomp. She got re – dressed. All parts covered this time around. She looked very nice.

I laughed to myself as we drove to the mall.

I swear, I have become my mother, who I still miss so much, all these years later. Not so polite, not so gentle, but I open my mouth and my momma’s words fall straight out, as if she’s in there, in me, her love still there, her impact on my life eternal.

I snuck a peek at beautiful Rebel Dancing Daughter, my mother’s granddaughter. One day, years ahead, when she has an argument with her daughter, and my words fall out of her mouth, she will laugh, too.

I reached for her hand. She held it. I do adore that kid.

My momma would be so proud of her.