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children,
fledgling parents often feel the bonds between
generations strengthen, renew. Or so I've heard.
Motherhood delivered a different perspective to me. Once
I was a mom I understood the magnitude of my father's
betrayal, the depths of my mother's solitude. I
understood that they were not able or willing to put
their children's needs before their own—an act I've come
to think of as the essence of parenthood.
"Have you forgiven your father?" Before he died I was
asked that question now and then. I had different
responses through the years but they all add up to the
same answer: Not my job. I spent a lot of time trying to
figure him out and a lot of energy trying to tell him
about me. Then my kids came along, giving me a loving
family of my own, and I didn't have much more to say to
him. I had tried. Now I could let go.
"Where is your mom?"
When my daughter Lily was three years old she climbed
onto my lap one day as I sat at my desk. Lily's middle
name is Lady, my mother's maiden name, the signature of
my mother's blood. Hanging above my computer were two
self-portraits my mother painted in the forties. I had
found them in a storage locker in Chicago many years
after she'd died.
Lily studied the paintings. Sometimes she knew that
the woman with dark hair and dramatic eyebrows was my
mom. Sometimes she thought it was me.
"Where is your mom?" she asked. Her brother Cal,
who's four years older, had passed through a stage when
that question bubbled up daily. The first time he asked
it tears sprang to my eyes, and I couldn't answer right
away. Eventually, the question lost its sting.
With Lily in my lap I could almost see the gears
working behind her satin brow: You are my mom. Everyone
has a mom. Where's yours?
I told my daughter, "She's in my heart."
"Can I kiss your heart?" Lily said. "I want to kiss
your mom."
Me too, baby.
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