I do not recall the moment of my children’s births. In fact, in 45 years, there are surprisingly few images seared into my consciousness. Tonight, I saw my mother in a medically-induced coma, recovering from open heart surgery. The surgery, I am told, was successful and she should be able to fight with me first thing tomorrow. But, for now, the vision of her helplessly asleep, intubated, and eyes wide shut, brought back haunting memories of my father’s death bed. I did not think about our fight last week, or last month, or the month before that. Suddenly, I could not remember why we see things so differently.
Instead, for the first time in decades, I was able to picture her holding me as a child. Letting me climb into her bed when I had chicken pox. And the time she had tears in her eyes when I left for camp. (in retrospect, probably tears of joy). The special dinners and occasional walks around the block. I recall the horrible, but well-intentioned advice she gave me about girlfriends. But mostly, I finally understand how she felt when she received the phone calls from my teachers. And the crippling fright she must have felt every time I left the house.
She spent the last 41 years teaching and advising a generation of grateful high school students. Without fanfare, and without much remuneration. Yet, she raised a financial advisor, a doctor, and a lawyer. And, by all measures, we are doing pretty well. Perhaps her greatest legacy is her 10 grandchildren, each one happy, secure, and talented, with unlimited potential for the future.
It’s funny. Sharks get a whole week; mothers get one day. Maybe it’s because sharks aren’t nearly as scary as the realization of adulthood that your parents are human. Their mistakes are almost certainly involuntary and, while it is easy to blame our parents for our shortcomings, it is important to recognize that, in most cases, they did the best they were capable of – – even if their best fell far short of our own lofty (but, perhaps, misguided) revisionist expectations.
Late in life, I have forgiven my childhood bully and high school nemesis. I have made peace with my close relatives who still insist on seeing me through the outdated prism of my youth. I hold no grudge against some of my contemporary friends, colleagues, and community leaders, who preach inclusion and tolerance, but practice neither. So, isn’t it time to let my parents off the hook?