Giving Children Wings

My mom's combination of fearlessness, faith in God, and experience with five brothers made mom a wonderful mother of boys. She didn't worry; she didn't clip any wings. She didn't let little things like sons on the roof or a son out of touch hiking the Appalachian trail for months upset her. Joe and Andrew look so pleased with themselves without any fear they might fall off or get in trouble. Her shy, timid, anxious daughter was a mystery to her:) I was annoyed that she didn't complain that my brothers forgot her birthday or mother's day, called once every two months.

Giving my daughters wings has been a bigger challenge for me, but I have not infected them with my anxieties. My oldest daughter was a bold adventurer from birth. From her company's web page: "Anne arrived at IPA after spending a year in Kosovo working with the UN Population Fund, having previously consulted for UNFPA in New York. She spent several months with the Centre for Conflict Management in Butare, Rwanda, where she was a researcher on the gacaca tribunals. She has also spent several years as an economic consultant in the private sector. She has traveled to over 65 countries, and has lived in Niger, Rwanda and Kosovo. " When she was 23, her boss wrote: "Anne can handle herself anywhere in the world." At the time she had to tell people: "look for the 16 year old in the hotel lobby."

On our living room wall is a huge world map, with push pins marking all the places my girls have traveled to. I recall asking another mother whether are grown children live close by. She told me no, one was 10 miles away and one was 20 miles away. At the time Anne was living in Africa and Michelle was in Australia on business for three months.

My daughters honor my anxieties. I have disciplined myself to worry when they are actually in flight, not on the ground. They send me their itineraries and call me when they land. I follow their flights on flight tracker and never sleep well when they are in the air. Two years ago Anne was on an 18-hour flight to Singapore; I couldn't sleep when she was in the air. My daughter Rose, the human rights lawyer, has promised me she will never visit her law firm's Iraq office.

Grandma Mary

My mother was only 52 when my oldest Anne was born. I had to wait until 62 to become a grandmother. Look how young she looks. She was an incredibly energetic grandmother, the kind who takes their grandchildren to Europe. Teenage Anne once commented: "I could even visualize you and dad dying, but grandma is immortal." Sadly, she didn't live to meet her two great grandsons and her great-daughter. By year's end, there will be six great grandchildren.

The downside of women's having children after they are settled in their careers is that their parents are older. Their children might not be grown when the parents have to confront the dilemmas of elder care. My grandmother was 47 when I was born. She lived long enough to meet 23 great grandchildren. Of course, her children had their children much younger as well.

My mother, my aunts, and their friends had their children young, then went back to school and embarked on a new career in their forties. For the most part, they did well. My Aunt Rosemarie went to law school at age 40, and went on to be chief counsel to the president of Stonybrook University.

Maiden Names

Both my parents are buried a Calverton, a military cemetery, on Eastern Long Island. My dad was a World War II veteran. When I was at Calverton for my aunts funeral, I visited my mom's and dad's graves. I was perturbed to see mom's inscribed as Mary Nolan, because I had misremembered that she wanted Mary Nolan Koch.

I hunted through her correspondence and found the following letter sent to the Veterans Administration in Washington, a year after my father's death.:

Feb. 5, 1988
Dear Sir,

On May 11, 1987, my husband, Joseph J. Koch, an Army veteran of World War II, was buried in the Calverton National Cemetery on Long Island, NY, gravesite 8179.

It is my understanding that gravesite 8180 has been reserved for me, his wife. When I recently visited the cemetery I was disturbed to note that the wives of veterans were only identified by their first name. To me that is sex discrimination.

Although I accepted my husband's name at marriage, I still consider myself as Mary Nolan and would wish to be so identified on a name plaque making my grave. Is there any reason why your policy could not be updated?

Yours truly,
Mary Nolan Koch

Subsequent correspondence showed the VA changed their policy and accepted her wishes. I feel rather sheepish about my first reaction. Bravo, Mary Nolan, a feminist ahead of her time! We were allowed to add an additional line, so we added mother, teacher, activist.

Family decisions on maiden names fascinate me. The one daughter who kept her maiden name insists that the waspish name trumps. Without violating my daughters' privacy and revelaing their names, you will have to take my word for it. After much inner turmoil, I took my husband's name when I married in 1968. It was an English name; Koch lent itself to too many embarrassisng mispronounciations. When I went back to school and work in 1987, I reverted to my maiden name. My master's degrees in library science and social work are under Koch.

Partly to disassociate myself from my past indiscretions, I took my husband's name when I remarried in 2001. Two daugthters, successful professional women, surprised us by taking their husbands' more Waspish names when they married. The one whose husband's name was not Waspish kept her original Waspish name.

Three of my sisters-in-law kept the maiden's name. One brother and his former wife made up a new name that combined elements of both their names.

What did you or your spouse decide?

Christmas Eve at Grandma's House

My daughter the writer wrote this description of a family Christmas Eve as part of a college application essay.

We’re in the midst of our annual Christmas Eve tree-trimming bash at my grandmother’s house. My father and my uncle Gerry are bringing in the tree, and my sisters and I are breathlessly awaiting its unveiling. I’m afraid that the reason is not that we’re waiting for this magical season to weave its spell over us. We get as sentimental as anyone over Christmas, but right now we’re wondering what geometric figure the tree will most closely resemble. My grandmother is very frugal. The result of this is that her trees are always cheap, but they also tend to have rather original shapes.

They bring the tree through the door, set it in the stand, and cut the netting around it. It does not disappoint. It’s, it’s...it’s nearly a perfect cylinder! My sisters and I begin hanging the ornaments. They consist of a few beautiful heirlooms, some traditional Christmas balls, many, many plastic multi-colored plastic disco balls, and a good number of styrofoam-and-yarn-elves which have been mysteriously decapitated over the years.

The traditional meal of tortilla chips and salsa is served. Much to everyone’s chagrin, but to no one’s surprise, Grandma has frozen the salsa. She has a rather touching faith that the best thing to do for any, and I do mean any, food is to stick it in the freezer for six months. Fortunately, the chips escaped unscathed.

My father places the angel on top of the tree, and we step back and admire our handiwork. It’s may not be one of man’s great artistic endeavors, but this tree has character, lots of character.

Reading with Dad

Dad is reading to Stephen, Michael, and Peter. The date and ages puzzle me. Michael must be at least three; Dad is reading from a huge book. But if it is 1959, Peter would be 7 and Stephen would be 10. Stephen looks younger than that. I love Michael's pjamas. Were we expected to be dressed for bed before Dad read to us? Did Dad always keep his tie on after he came home from work?

I remember the curtains and the lamp better than the couch. I can't figure out what Dad is reading. Surely it is not the family bible, which is that color. Looking back, Dad and Mom didn't spent much time reading picture books. We were exposed to much more challenging books when we were very young. Mom also went out of the way to take us to the Hempstead Library because the Uniondale Library was so inadequate. She let us take out more books at a time than any parents I have met in my entire library career.

When Mom and Dad visited me at the hospital after Vanessa was born, they bought children's books as a present.

My Mother and Fibi

I hope no one takes the following the wrong way. I am sitting at the dining room table using my ibook looking across at my mom sleeping in her recliner in the living room. In many ways her daily life seems to resemble that of Fibi, our eleven year old cat, who is sitting on her lap. Mom enjoys eating, welcoming a variety of foods. She enjoys being around people and being touched and stroked. She is touched so much more now than when she lived alone as a widow from 1987 to 2000. I am playing Bach's St. Luke's Passion on the stereo. Mom likes the room warm. In fact the only complaint she reliably makes is if she is too cold or our hands are too cold. She gets more awake and animated when there are visitors or a change in routine; she is pleased when they sit next to her, hold her hand, tell her how good she looks.

She stills wants her gray hair touched up because she cares about looking pretty. She enjoys showering and being clean. She seems to enjoy being outside, notices trees and flowers. She seems content though her daily routine is totally different than it was when she was younger. What her inner life is, I can't guess. For all I know, she could be having thrilling dreams; certainly she doesn't seem to have nightmares. She looks peaceful when she is sleeping.

When I feel overwhelmingly sad about how Mom has changed, I remind myself that I don't feel sorry for Fibi; she is just older, not the energetic, exciting cat she used to be who used to walk across our curtains rods. But we still love her, enjoy her, love to touch her, and are very glad she is around.

All the years Mom was healthy, she wasn't overly fond of Fibi, who is a rather temperamental cat. But now they both have mellowed and spend most of their days together. Fibi seems to know Mom requires gentleness. I don't mean to insult my mom in the least. I am trying to reframe her experience to make it more bearable for everyone. Cat lovers would understand.

Fibi seemed to be searching for my mother for weeks after her death. Her personality seems to have permanently mellowed.