Tag Archives: childhood

For My Mother From Their Mother on Our Day

Like most of us, I am thinking of my mother today, feeling so fortunate to be her daughter and so incredibly blessed to have her around as my children fly through their teenage years. I am grateful for our daily conversations, the incredible stories she continues to surprise me with–still, after all these years–and most of all, for the laughter we share. In her honor, and in honor of all the mothers within reach of my blog, I am reposting this tribute from five years ago.

I love you, Mom!

One of the best things about being a mother is being able to share my children with my mother and vice versa.  Mom has been such a part of Zoe and Theo’s upbringing from the start, with the books she brings, the time she spends, the stories she tells them of her childhood and mine.  My children are eight and eleven now; Mom still cares for them at least once a week though it means driving out here to Jersey from her home in Manhattan.   When she comes, she cooks for them, helps them with homework as needed, plays with them and listens to the stories they share of their lives.  She never judges or criticizes them, but loves with an open mind and heart.

My mother had been a presence in their lives since the beginning.  I had to schedule my first prenatal sonogram on a day when my husband was away on a business trip.  I did not want to go alone because the event was momentous for me: I was going to see the image of my child (who, at the time, bore a strong resemblance to a thumbprint) for the very first time, and wanted to share it with someone who, well, shared it.

My mother had just gotten home from a trip to Spain and did not yet know I was pregnant.  I’d been cautiously secretive about it to protect myself and others from disappointment.  I had worked for several years at an adoption agency, counseling couples who had struggled with infertility before choosing adoption as the way to have a family.  Since infertility was a common theme in my daily life—also since my body had lived through so much eating disorder trauma—I assumed I too would face challenges conceiving.  I didn’t, though it took a few tests to convince me that the second line in the window was real.  So my seven week sonogram—whose purpose was just to make sure everything was “viable”—was a big deal.  Inviting my mother was how I told her I was pregnant.

After the sonogram—which took place at the hospital where I’d ultimately give birth—we walked together the seven blocks to my OBGYN’s office, my mother clutching the sonogram printout in her hand.

“Got a picture there, Grandma?”  said Dr. Finkelstein, when we arrived.  My mother beamed; it was the first time anyone had called her that.

My mother, having been a school teacher for over fifty years, teaching everyone from first graders to masters candidates, was what she would call child-oriented.  She started teaching kids almost as soon as she stopped being one.  Between caring for her younger sister, teaching, parenting me, tutoring and caring for my children, my mother’s life has revolved around kids.  She knows them—intellectually, instinctively and emotionally.    As a mother, she was so tuned in to my needs, she met them almost before I knew I had them.  (Her mother, cold and often distant, did the opposite; I’m trying to find a happy medium.)

So, though we don’t see eye to eye on everything, though we’ve had our struggles, mostly in the context of our food/body image legacy (which I think has its roots in the death of my great-grandmother, who left my grandmother motherless and full of rage at six), we’ve always been close.  I am so lucky to have had her all my life; I’m lucky and grateful to have her now.

Specifically, I am lucky to have a mother who listens to me, no matter how hard it is to hear what I sometimes have to say.  I am lucky to have a mother who champions me, even when I can’t see the value in what I do myself.  I am lucky to have a mother who knows me, truly, who accepts me and who has never, ever given me cause to question her unconditional love.  Generous mothers like mine are easy to take for granted because they never demand credit for anything.  For this reason, it is important for me to honor my mother, not just on Mother’s Day, but every day of the year.  She may not know it but I do.  My every interaction with my children is influenced by her in some small way.  I often bookmark the funny things they say and do because I know how much she’ll appreciate them.  I know how much they mean to her, how she loves to hear stories that highlight Zoe and Theo just being their smart, funny adorable kid-selves.

There are two things my mother has said about being a grandparent that I know will stay with me long after I am one myself.  First: Zoe was about six months old, crawling, interacting and generally being her quirky, funny, interesting self.  Having spent the whole day with her while I was at work, my mother said to me when I got home:

“She was such a delight.  It’s like having you again, only without the guilt!” As a grandmother, Mom is free to enjoy my kids without the worry of shaping them and doing things right.

The second thing she says has to do with my children remembering her.  Mom had me on the “late” side.  I too was considered an “older mother” when I had my son at thirty-seven.  Which makes my mother older than many of my children’s grandparents.  When my kids were very small, Mom worried: will they remember me?  She feared—though she had no health issues at the time—that she might not be around long enough to make an impression on their newly developing minds.  Somewhere, she had read that eight was the age of fully remembering experiences and people (though I know I have strong memories of earlier periods in my life).  Now that my youngest is eight, she says, at least I know they’ll remember me.  With all Mom has given them, done for them, taught them, with all the stories I know about her, either because she told me or I lived them first hand, I know there’s no question.

Happy Mother’s Day.

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Snapshot of Innocence

Who is that kid?  No it’s not another picture of my daughter.  It’s another child I care for quite deeply, actually.  I’ll give you a hint.  It was taken in 1970.

Yes, it’s me.  Looking pretty pleased with myself, my life and the mess I’ve made of my milk and strawberry ice cream.  My best friend Claire still lived on the ninth floor of my apartment building, I still went to the Manhattan Country School.  My favorite toy was a big, green and white corrugated cardboard puppet stage and I still believed I was going to get a dog and a baby sister one day, somehow.  I didn’t hate my hair.  I didn’t think I was fat.

The reason I love this picture is that I can see in my eyes all of the above.  I can see how safe I felt, how trusting and truly innocent I was.  When I look at that picture, I see the good, sweet, silly little girl I was and it makes me want to be good—to her and for her.

I know the expression “inner-child” has been used ad nauseam, fodder for cheap sit-com laughs for more than thirty years, but there’s something about remembering who we were as children, and how we were back then—that goes a long way toward banishing negativity in our present lives.

If you can, go and get a picture of yourself when you were little, say four or five.  Still the age of magical thinking, but old enough to have the language to order your thoughts, and an idea of what was going on around you.  Look at the picture for a minute.  A whole minute and see what you’re feeling.  Imagine that the child can see you and your life.  What conversation might you have?  I know what you wouldn’t say.  You wouldn’t tell the child she’s stupid or worthless or an idiot or a fat pig or ugly or incompetent.  You’d never tell her: “I can’t believe you screwed that up!”  “What’s wrong with you?” or anything so harsh.

I hope you don’t talk to your big-adult self that way either.  But sadly, a lot of people do.  Not all the time, but sometimes and sometimes is enough to count as beating yourself up.  Now think back to the last time you put yourself down, called yourself dumb or fat or anything intended to hurt yourself.  Imagine what you’d do if you saw someone treating the child in the photograph that way.  You’d probably defend the kid.  You’d stand up to the bully on the child’s behalf.  And finally you’d try to rectify the situation by building the child up, telling her something positive and hopeful.  You’d work at it until you saw her smile again.

Why?  Because children are all potential, all hope, all beautiful dreams.  No matter what their circumstances, they are blameless and deserving of the chance to be and do anything.  As adults, we have to recognize life’s and our own limitations.  We set more realistic goals, but strive, hopefully, to be the best we can at what suits us.  Sometimes there are false starts, unfortunate career choices, misguided relationships.  From every experience, good and bad, you learn and use that knowledge the next time you’ve got a choice to make.

I love that everyone is writing letters to past versions of themselves these days.  I think it’s such a wonderful mix of reflection and self acceptance.  Oprah had a whole section of her May 2012 issue devoted to  letters written by celebrities to their younger selves (hers is first).  And there’s the upcoming Dear Teen Me, to be released in October, edited by Miranda Kenneally and E. Kristin Anderson, an anthology of YA authors’ letters to teens they once were.

All these letters are full of advice and reassurance: It’ll get better, don’t eat so much sugar, don’t smoke, have more fun.  The idea is to look back tenderly at your old self, nurture Kid You with the perspective Grown-up You has gained over the years.  Since we’re generally nicer and more patient with children than we are with adults, this might be a step toward showing yourself love.

When I’ve done trauma work—with teens and young adults who were victimized as children— there is a visualization exercise we do.  The following is a generic, sketch-description (and note that this kind of exercise is never done too soon in the therapy, never too early in a support group).

Close your eyes and imagine yourself a small child again, at the time when [the abuse] took place.  Remember yourself, your room.  Tell me some of the details, what toys are around? What’s on the walls?  Where are you in the room?  Remember the place where [the abuse] happened.  Tell me what is happening.  Now, I want you to choose someone from any time period in your life—even the present—an adult who is strong and loyal and can protect and defend you.  Now bring that person back with you.  Let that person protect you and stop [the abuse/abuser]. (Can you tell me what’s happening?  How the protecting adult stops [the trauma]? 

Now, Can you tell me who it is that saves you?

More than once, when I did this exercise, either with an individual or with a group, the answer to the last question was:

MYSELF.  That’s who saves me.  Myself as an adult, how I am now.”

There is something very powerful in the notion of you—the grownup—saving your past self.  Only you can be that loyal to you.

You are not that child anymore.  You are not reliant on other adults to guide you, nurture you and cheer you on.  (Maybe you’re parenting kids of your own, caring for your own parents at the same time.)  But that child is still part of your identity.  You carry her with you always.  Remember her: the hope she had, the small joys and big dreams, no matter how much they’ve changed over the years.  You can honor her by being true to your current goals, your current dreams, by believing in yourself.

So have standards for yourself, for your work, for your parenting and treatment of others and care for the environment.  But don’t make those standards impossibly high, and don’t chastise yourself on those days when you fall a little bit short.  Instead, look at the picture, look into the child’s eyes and believe you deserve the same love she did.

For My Mother From Their Mother on Our Day

One of the best things about being a mother is being able to share my children with my mother and vice versa.  Mom has been such a part of Zoe and Theo’s upbringing from the start, with the books she brings, the time she spends, the stories she tells them of her childhood and mine.  My children are eight and eleven now; Mom still cares for them at least once a week though it means driving out here to Jersey from her home in Manhattan.   When she comes, she cooks for them, helps them with homework as needed, plays with them and listens to the stories they share of their lives.  She never judges or criticizes them, but loves with an open mind and heart.

My mother had been a presence in their lives since the beginning.  I had to schedule my first prenatal sonogram on a day when my husband was away on a business trip.  I did not want to go alone because the event was momentous for me: I was going to see the image of my child (who, at the time, bore a strong resemblance to a thumbprint) for the very first time, and wanted to share it with someone who, well, shared it.

My mother had just gotten home from a trip to Spain and did not yet know I was pregnant.  I’d been cautiously secretive about it to protect myself and others from disappointment.  I had worked for several years at an adoption agency, counseling couples who had struggled with infertility before choosing adoption as the way to have a family.  Since infertility was a common theme in my daily life—also since my body had lived through so much eating disorder trauma—I assumed I too would face challenges conceiving.  I didn’t, though it took a few tests to convince me that the second line in the window was real.  So my seven week sonogram—whose purpose was just to make sure everything was “viable”—was a big deal.  Inviting my mother was how I told her I was pregnant.

After the sonogram—which took place at the hospital where I’d ultimately give birth—we walked together the seven blocks to my OBGYN’s office, my mother clutching the sonogram printout in her hand.

“Got a picture there, Grandma?”  said Dr. Finkelstein, when we arrived.  My mother beamed; it was the first time anyone had called her that.

My mother, having been a school teacher for over fifty years, teaching everyone from first graders to masters candidates, was what she would call child-oriented.  She started teaching kids almost as soon as she stopped being one.  Between caring for her younger sister, teaching, parenting me, tutoring and caring for my children, my mother’s life has revolved around kids.  She knows them—intellectually, instinctively and emotionally.    As a mother, she was so tuned in to my needs, she met them almost before I knew I had them.  (Her mother, cold and often distant, did the opposite; I’m trying to find a happy medium.)

So, though we don’t see eye to eye on everything, though we’ve had our struggles, mostly in the context of our food/body image legacy (which I think has its roots in the death of my great-grandmother, who left my grandmother motherless and full of rage at six), we’ve always been close.  I am so lucky to have had her all my life; I’m lucky and grateful to have her now.

Specifically, I am lucky to have a mother who listens to me, no matter how hard it is to hear what I sometimes have to say.  I am lucky to have a mother who champions me, even when I can’t see the value in what I do myself.  I am lucky to have a mother who knows me, truly, who accepts me and who has never, ever given me cause to question her unconditional love.  Generous mothers like mine are easy to take for granted because they never demand credit for anything.  For this reason, it is important for me to honor my mother, not just on Mother’s Day, but every day of the year.  She may not know it but I do.  My every interaction with my children is influenced by her in some small way.  I often bookmark the funny things they say and do because I know how much she’ll appreciate them.  I know how much they mean to her, how she loves to hear stories that highlight Zoe and Theo just being their smart, funny adorable kid-selves.

There are two things my mother has said about being a grandparent that I know will stay with me long after I am one myself.  First: Zoe was about six months old, crawling, interacting and generally being her quirky, funny, interesting self.  Having spent the whole day with her while I was at work, my mother said to me when I got home:

“She was such a delight.  It’s like having you again, only without the guilt!” As a grandmother, Mom is free to enjoy my kids without the worry of shaping them and doing things right.

The second thing she says has to do with my children remembering her.  Mom had me on the “late” side.  I too was considered an “older mother” when I had my son at thirty-seven.  Which makes my mother older than many of my children’s grandparents.  When my kids were very small, Mom worried: will they remember me?  She feared—though she had no health issues at the time—that she might not be around long enough to make an impression on their newly developing minds.  Somewhere, she had read that eight was the age of fully remembering experiences and people (though I know I have strong memories of earlier periods in my life).  Now that my youngest is eight, she says, at least I know they’ll remember me.  With all Mom has given them, done for them, taught them, with all the stories I know about her, either because she told me or I lived them first hand, I know there’s no question.

Happy Mother’s Day.