Unconditional Love

One of biggest moments of truth in my life happened when I had my own children, nearly twelve years ago, and suddenly I understood how much my parents loved me. Like, really, really, loved me (and my sister) and I understood how much space we took in their lives. The weight of that sudden awareness levels me every time I think about it. I wish it leveled me even more, because the reality of how much I took their love and support for granted well into adulthood is stunning. In some ways, I supposed, that's how life should be. Isn't that what unconditional love should be?

Maybe.

But maybe it means you'll call your parents when they're sick, to see how they're feeling. Bring them soup, or ice cream. Or check in on that doctor's appointment. Or send articles and books and funny pictures of your life. Maybe you'll call and say, let's make a date for lunch, or drinks or for a marathon phone call.

I wish I did that more. For two years now my father, who I loved deeply, has been gone.

I can no longer hear his stories about his youth in Istanbul, and living in the U.S. in the ‘50s and ‘60s. I can't watch his eyes both water and light up when he talked about his late parents and brother. I wish I could ask his opinion on my job, kids, friends, running, politics, life. I wish we could just sit together on the couch and drink tea and watch dumb movies and giggle.

But my mother, who nursed him for many months, is vibrantly alive. And so I ask her to come and sleep over for the weekend, I introduce her to Korean food, I keep the Scotch she likes in my cabinet, I send her funny videos of the kids and call to make sure she made it to yoga for the second time this week. I listen to her stories of her youth and her family, and I really listen, and even though the stories are not that different, I hear so much more in them now. How they created the woman she is today, how some of that created me, and how some parts of us actually never grow up at all.

We're always our parents' children.

xo

Susan