My Mother's Elbows

 

The other day, as I was shuffling down the pathway with an armload of wood  (I had slid into old old clogs for a quick trip outside to dump the ashes so the stove would burn properly), I  began to think about  if and how I am like my mother.  I don't know why; the thoughts just drifted into my mind , an early morning thread before I had even really woken up.  I am now a little  older than she was when she died of breast cancer which she refused to treat, but, I take comfort in reminding myself,  many many years younger than my grandmother was when she died.  This whole train of thought started with some observations I have made recently of my interactions with my daughter.

Perhaps I am not talking about my own mother in particular.  No, I think I am talking about something else, the generic relationship between a sixty something mother and a thirty something daughter. I am, afterall, healthy and strong, but my daughter has started watching out for me in a way that both charms, and occasionally surprises me.   Last time I was in NY, I had a cough I couldn't get rid of.  My daughter advised me to do something about it.  I brushed her off.  ("I always get coughs in the winter.  They go away.  I'm just ignoring it.")  Two days later I was really sick and she had to take care of me.  I should have listened to her.  This pattern happened a couple of times before I actually paid attention.  Such a common pattern.  The child gives some good advice around health, the parent brushes it off, rejects it out of hand, the child ends up dealing with the parent's illness.  God, that is certainly a pattern I vowed never to inflict on my child.  So I hope I caught it in the bud.  I copped to her and suggested that she point out when I am doing this. Which she has a couple of times - and I have to admit she was right.  I was doing it.  

I know my body is in some ways much like my mother's and that's OK.   My hair, thick, short, curly, some grey, is my mother's hair for sure.  I can still remember the scratching sound that I heard when I gave her little head massages when I was a child.  And now I hear that sound from the inside when I scratch my own head, rather than from the outside.  OK, springy healthy hair, slender arms and legs.  I know my arms are hers.  I  realized this years ago when I suddenly looked at my elbows and saw my mother.  But my thoughts, feelings, and especially behavior, I'm going to keep a close eye on that. 

Yesterday morning at 6AM as I stood waiting for the Megabus in a snow filled parking lot in Washington DC, I thought about this again.  Luckily my daughter had insisted I pack my warm red fleece jacket.  I only did it because of this blog, and so I wasn't absolutely freezing.

 PS  This photograph of my grandmother, mother, myself, and daughter was taken by the photographer, Kathy Sloane, who has been documenting families, children, and the world of jazz for many years.  In the fall she will release a book of her jazz photographs. 

Comments

[suzy oneill]

So glad to see you blogging again and about such a pithy subject. You make it seem simple but it's not, of course. Aging isn't a big player yet but I see the glimmmer of it round the corner. And I'm guessing you do too.
Great to see the pic of a young you and little Sarah.
Thanks for starting up anew
Suzyo

[kathy sloane]

hi peggy
iloved this post on your mother and was tickled to see the photo i made of you all so many years ago. thanks for the credit and the lovely plug for my book.
travel well
love
kathy