In honor of Mother's Day, some reflective writing.
There's a point, early in your child's life, when you start to question what kind of legacy you are giving them. When you realize that you are the elder, you're the one imposing ideas, ideologies, quirks, and passions unto your offspring.
There's a point, early in your child's life, when you start to question what kind of legacy you are giving them. When you realize that you are the elder, you're the one imposing ideas, ideologies, quirks, and passions unto your offspring.
I think of the gifts my family gave to me when I was very young. I have my mother's looks, her artistry, her creativity, her love of singing, and ability to throw the most spectacular party at a moment's notice. I have my dad's lanky limbs, his love of Wagnerian opera, his die hard Yankee fandom and his love of writing. I have an entrepreneurial spirit, a nostalgia, a love of family, and an urge to road trip that belonged to both of my parents.
I think in terms of specifics.
My parents introduced me to Martha's Vineyard, to sunsets over Menemsha and ferry rides at dawn. My dad taught me how to hit a wiffle ball when I was 5 (through the living room window), and my mom taught me how to make pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse on Sunday mornings.
My great-grandmother had me stand on a pink speckled chair, and introduced me to gravy in the form of meats and oils and squished, strained tomatoes. My granny introduced me to birds, my PopPop to magic tricks (like making your thumb disappear) and piano, and my grandma to doll houses and perfectly stuffed cannolis. My sister was a patient pupil and made me love teaching with a grey chalkboard and some dusty, colored writing utensils, long before I ever took a Praxis exam or had my own official classroom.
My parents introduced me to Martha's Vineyard, to sunsets over Menemsha and ferry rides at dawn. My dad taught me how to hit a wiffle ball when I was 5 (through the living room window), and my mom taught me how to make pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse on Sunday mornings.
My great-grandmother had me stand on a pink speckled chair, and introduced me to gravy in the form of meats and oils and squished, strained tomatoes. My granny introduced me to birds, my PopPop to magic tricks (like making your thumb disappear) and piano, and my grandma to doll houses and perfectly stuffed cannolis. My sister was a patient pupil and made me love teaching with a grey chalkboard and some dusty, colored writing utensils, long before I ever took a Praxis exam or had my own official classroom.
I look at my daughters and already I see my influence, and my husband's. Riley begs to hear The Indigo Girls' Joking every time music plays, and could kick a soccer ball as soon as she could walk. She watches the Knicks and says "Soccer ball basket!" (she's getting there). Ella giggles when she sees my make funny faces, and tries to sing when I do. Riley already loves letters and would sit with her books in the nook of her closet for hours if I let her. Ella spent her first day at Central Park trying to crawl towards a college-age violinist playing classical music.
Yesterday, Riley stood at her daddy's piano and pounded on it with one hand, and her little plastic model with the other, instructing "Sing ABC's, mommy. Sing ABC's, daddy." She helps me make eggs, cracking the shells carefully on the edge of the metal bowl, and mixing (sometimes a bit too vigorously) with a Lightning McQueen fork. She sits with her dad and knows all the animals, and can count all the way to twenty (her father's mathematical genius seems to be strong in this one). She has my memory, able to repeat passages from her books almost instantly. And both girls get excited when they see a car, and want to go on "adventures."
They also have our wild streaks. They climb art easels and desks without remembering they will eventually have to get down. They trip and fall because their minds are moving faster than their legs. They get that mischievous glint in their eyes right before they make a raspberry sound while sticking out their tongues, spitting milk everywhere (and leaving each other in stitches). They adhere to "as long as people laugh, it must be okay", a mantra I've long held myself.
It's incredible to see these little people I created coming into their own, and "becoming human". I see that spark, that sense of adventure, defiance, and curiosity already in both my girls. I watch them climbing furniture and toys, and exploring the woods in our backyard, and I realize, "I used to do this." With every passing day, I see them contemplating a little bit more, embracing their uniqueness. They think, therefore they are becoming. But always with that nod to the ones who came before.
