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This is the title of the memoir I'm writing: Mother of My Invention. On this Mother's Day, I can't help but think again of the woman who would have been my mother if she'd been able, if schizophrenia hadn't overtaken her around the time I was born. I'd like to have known her as she appears in this photo dated January of 1947. She was a newlywed, just pregnant with my sister but not aware of it yet. There's a Life magazine on the sofa near her, as she admires the silver service she got when she and my father married the previous summer. The same tarnished silver service that rests in its nicked and scratched mahogany chest on a shelf in my closet. Ordinary moments that likely weren't savored enough in their time.
I also didn't savor the ordinary moments of being a mother as I should have. I remember being impatient for the next developmental stage, not only my children's but my own. I was often frustrated at my attempts to be the mother I thought I should have had, the mother of my invention. I was enthusiastic about my career and was sometimes distracted by it. Somehow, and by the grace of God, we managed to raise children who are excellent parents themselves, and for that I am very thankful. In this pandemic period, a celebration of Mother's Day will be different. I will see one of my children physically, yet I won't be able to touch him. I'll probably see the other digitally, and I won't be able to touch her either. What won't change is how very much I love both of these people. As a mother, and in spite of imperfect parenting--maybe because of it, what I've always hoped most for them is that they know I love them. Today presents an opportunity for me to tell them this. Again. --Janice
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January 2022
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