My kid

I’ve come full circle. In early 2003, in an earlier incarnation of a tiny writing club with my mother, we gave ourselves a challenge: 3 wishes for a newborn.

I never finished that 3-wishes essay; though I did bear a newborn later that year. Here we are twenty years later. My kid no longer a newborn. My mom no longer writing. Me, her mother, her daughter, writing again. Let us finish the unfinished.

Although uncommitted to essay form, I long ago naively cast my three wishes: curiosity, sense of humour, and sense of community. Curiosity - a solid foundation on which to build. Humour, (particularly the self-depreciating kind) - surely a prerequisite to any life well-lived. And community to lean on and to contribute in. What more could one wish for?

Notably absent from my wish-list: beauty, health, and wealth. Why skip the implicit bedrock aspirations of our society? It was, and is, a conscious choice. What is beauty without curiosity? What is health without humour? And what is wealth without community? No, give her curious over beautiful. Give her laughter despite setbacks. Give her riches of community.

I augmented my lofty wishes with more practical and possibly cynical parental goals: learn to tie your shoe laces (even if you never wear shoes with laces), get your driver’s license (even if you never drive a car), get an education (even if you never use it), and, most importantly, don’t be an asshole. Practical goals. Modest goals. I’m personally still working on the last one. Dementia care will test you, let me tell you.

Twenty years ago, my mother declared herself neither black nor white, but rather, grey. Having declared, “although we [the grey] look bleak, aged and depressingly dull, we, above all, value personal strength. For us, for me, the purpose of life is life itself. Life has to be lived, vitality is vital”, she continued:

my dearest child, may you be well-grounded, well-founded,

may you keep your powder dry, when your limit is lower than the sky

my dearest child, in all life’s stages, may you be courageous

my dearest child, as long as you live, may you be imaginative,

may you always find the force of a new resource

She concluded with, “off-key, I will hum my eternal tune a million times – realistic, courageous, resourceful”.

Her grandkid. My kid. What has become of our long-ago wishes? She has learned to tie her laces (and various other clever knots). She has a driver’s license (and rarely drives). She’s working on that education (computers and philosophy). Oh and yes, she infuriates her mother. She also climbs mountains. She plants trees. She is a good friend. She is principled. She forges her own way. But above all else, my kid made me a grateful and proud mother. Her mother.

My mother. Her grandmother. My mother is the force who shaped us both. My mother, the grey, cast the wishes that live on in us. And though my mom may not always recognize me these days as her “my kid”, I am and always shall be “her kid” and mother of “my kid”.