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"  Whenever I recall my mom as she appeared to me when I was little girl, I always see the same thing: black and teal houndstooth. Back in the day, Mom had a few trademark items\u2014a skirtsuit in the aforementioned pattern being one of them; a crisp, chambray button down being another\u2014and instead of her fragrance (Fracas or Jo Malone) or hair (curly and whitish blonde), the exactness of her look is what stands out. It may have been influenced by trends\u2014she was not above a shoulder pad or scrunched gym socks\u2014but there&amp;#039;s always been an element of precision to her look. My mom has never looked unkempt, messy, or frumpy a day in her life. Since my dad died in 2011, my mom&amp;#039;s style has certainly changed: leather pants, sky-high-heels, and asymmetrical hemlines have become part of her daily repertoire. One thing that hasn&amp;#039;t changed, however, is the thoughtfulness behind her aesthetic. She employs a checks-and-balances shopping methodology: As soon as she acquires something new, she donates, purges, or gives away something old. She hates having too much stuff. She hates when things don&amp;#039;t fit perfectly. And she loves the control she has over, if nothing else, her enviable closet. Related: Why Can&amp;#039;t a Smart Woman Love Fashion? And to her credit, my mom&amp;#039;s closet is better than any store in the world. Imagine three perfectly merchandised racks of Chanel, The Row, Proenza Schouler, Reed Krakoff, Yigal Azrou\u00EBl, and Thomas Maier, plus a shoe closet of Gianvito Rossi pumps, Jenni Kayne d&amp;#039;Orsay kitten heels, and old school, velvet Prada platforms. Did I mention that we&amp;#039;re the same size? And that she loves to share? Related: How to Raise a Woman Who Changes the World Moments after I arrive for a visit to my childhood home, my mom, who greets visitors like an overcaffeinated Labrador, always offers me a cocktail before asking if I want to see her new stuff. It&amp;#039;s a ritual at which I often shake my head. &amp;quot;When do you have time to shop?&amp;quot; I ask, even though I know that this woman, who works 12-hour days, also finds time to exercise daily, jet up to New York mid-week for Grandparents Day, and send magazine articles via snail mail to my three older siblings and me. Unlike regular people, my mom doesn&amp;#039;t see time as a constraint but rather a heartbeat to which her life hums. (This she also does while shuttling flower arrangements between the kitchen and the dining room and back again.) While I admire my mom, a former congresswoman, as a driven woman with a passion for government, policy, and homeland security\u2014subjects that confound me with their complexity and scope\u2014I delight in our shared love of clothing. And though she may ask my view on Obama (&amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s an impossible job!&amp;quot; is about the size of my opinion), we&amp;#039;ve been known to wax poetic about a newly acquired leather vest for hours. &amp;quot;Oh!&amp;quot; I might say, &amp;quot;You could wear it over your navy Jil Sander gown.&amp;quot; Her ice-blue eyes, still rimmed in liquid liner from a morning appearance on Fox &amp;amp;amp; Friends, will twinkle. &amp;quot;Ooooh,&amp;quot; she&amp;#039;ll say mischievously before dashing over to the bonus closet, which used to house my Dad&amp;#039;s sweaters, golf shoes, and misshapen baseball caps that he wore perched on top of his head, but now serves as a de facto formalwear boutique. When we play dress up, I always start off in the role of conscientious objector. &amp;quot;No, I&amp;#039;m okay. I don&amp;#039;t go to galas,&amp;quot; I might sneer from my perch on her built-in bureau when she proffers up a swingy number with Swarovski-studded straps. But despite my many protestations, the woman is always able to get me out of my Current/Elliotts and into the Dolce minidress I swore up and down wasn&amp;#039;t &amp;quot;me.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Now that,&amp;quot; she&amp;#039;ll say, taking a swig of her vodka tonic, &amp;quot;is spectacular.&amp;quot; And then, with the same expediency with which she lured me into her orbit, she&amp;#039;ll part with a beloved item. &amp;quot;Take it!&amp;quot; she&amp;#039;ll insist while pushing the pricey garment, which she found on &amp;quot;super sale&amp;quot; at Neiman&amp;#039;s, into my arms. My closet of J.Crew, Zara, and Vince is punctuated with these treasures: a Monet-esque Marni dinner coat; an A-line vintage lace dress she wore to a former president&amp;#039;s funeral; a pink-and-taupe Victoria Beckham frock that practically flirts with me every time I&amp;#039;m looking for something sensible to wear to work. Now, don&amp;#039;t get it twisted, I&amp;#039;m not exactly Pig-Pen. Perhaps inspired by my flawless role model, I often travel with a lint roller, unpack my clothes the moment I return home from vacation, and relish in the perfection of a folded thong. But it&amp;#039;s an exhausting fa\u00E7ade and one I frequently abandon in favor of full-fledged slothdom. In these moments of repose\u2014when a recently acquired oxblood Max Mara le smoking is the last thing on my mind\u2014I wonder what my mom might think of my overflowing laundry baskets, the imperfect stacks of sweaters and T-shirts lining my closet, or the fact that the bulk of my &amp;quot;good shoes&amp;quot; live under my desk at work. I often wonder if Sundays spent in Free City sweatpants and my husband&amp;#039;s L.L.Bean flannel unbuttoned past my sternum betray our style covenant. (I occasionally wonder if I&amp;#039;m good enough to be her daughter.) But then I picture how I feel when we&amp;#039;re alone in her room, playing dress up with all of the beautiful things she&amp;#039;s deemed worthy of her sparkling attention. Standing out amid the shimmering silks, bunny-soft cashmeres, and graphic houndstooth checks is one indelible image: me. Always me.  Photo: The author (in YSL) and her mother (in vintage Chanel) at her wedding last year, courtesy of Lauren and Abby Ross. 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