Who I am partially reflects how I was raised by my parents. It was about priorities, but it was unquestionably all about family. From Sunday night dinners around my parents’ dining table, never with less than several extended family members and friends who were welcomed as family, to holiday meals that were always inclusive and more of a social gathering. Hosting 45 people was commonplace in our house even if that meant finding seating on the ledge of the bathroom tub or on the staircase separating the two floors of our 1,200-square-foot split-level house.
Who I am is as simple as a Sunday. It’s my mother marching me into the Sunday School principal’s office to admonish him for extending classes an additional two hours, as it interfered with family time and then withdrawing me from school that very day.
Who I am is due to my own parents saying “yes” more than “no”. Its due to all the travel they did and all the hours and expense of lessons and matches they endured just so I could compete in my sport. And mostly it’s seeing my parents on the other side of the fence when other kids didn’t. It’s about them showing up.
It’s as simple as them including me in their Saturday night plans when they knew I didn’t have any, and never once harboring over me being single even well into my thirties. It was graciously allowing me to host many a party and finding the humor about the unresolved removal of their back deck gate by a guest and then finding it on the front yard. It’s about their trust in me to do the right thing, and the extent of their forgiveness when I didn’t. It’s holding the front door open at two in the morning with a cup of coffee in one hand, with the doorknob in the other when I failed to call home letting them know I would be late, and no other words needed to be spoken.
Who I am is as simple as knowing that my mom would always be home when I returned from school and that dinner was a meal to be shared as a family. It’s as much about knowing that my parents will pick up the phone when I call, as it is about knowing their eagerness to call. It’s knowing that I would always have their support especially when my career path was in flux. It’s about my decision to leave the practice of law after just four years without a path forward but always believing in the back of my mind that I’ll be ok. It’s knowing that their house would always be my home long after I moved out.
Who I am is by virtue of the neighborhood I was raised in. Of the modest split-level homes that lined our streets, each identical to the other, and the sidewalks that established our competence on a two-wheeler, sometimes riding with no hands, mine with pink handlebars and a pink banana seat. It’s about the annual 4th of July parades that all the kids dressed for, me being either the Statue of Liberty or Pocahontas and the neighborhood pool where we all earned our deep-water swimming patch. It’s about mowing our own lawns, playing kick-the-can on summer nights and a neighborhood of registered democrats.
Who I am today is due in large part to my brothers before me. Of preferring baseball over ballet. Of talking sports rather than about boys. Of being the only girl amongst a room of boys and easily holding my own. Who I am is as elementary as being more at ease with those who are older rather than those of my contemporaries.
Who I am is a compilation of bearing witness to the unimaginable grief by the tragic loss of my brother on the eve of my high school graduation but witnessing the forty-five plus years of improbable resolve by that of my parents. It’s about attending my high school graduation as a family even as we grieved but especially because of it and attending to everyday life in general. Who I am is believing in the double rainbows that seem to appear at every important family function and trusting in our own guardian angel. It’s the freedom my parents gave me to pursue my life, to be independent without guilt and to celebrate without compunction. But it’s also about the self-imposed need to protect my parents from harm. Of taking on more so that they take on less. Of being the home with the open-door policy now that they have surrendered theirs, of being more of their support system but still allowing them to be seen as mine. Much to my husband’s chagrin, who I am today is about staying in Maryland during the winter months because that’s where my parents are.
Who I am is about being my father’s daughter. Where my mom is outgoing, my dad is reserved. Where she can easily make conversation and welcomes the opportunity, my father is contemplative and guarded, and where she gravitates to any crowd, my dad prefers his own crowd. That is exactly who I am. Who I am is about years of building boundaries of stoicism, of appearing strong rather than vulnerable. It’s about the fear of failure and the later regret of not trying. It’s being more comfortable being supportive rather than being supported. It’s all about being the best wingman. It’s about recognizing my own persona from reading my dad’s own words as he recently shared in his 465-page published collection of his memories.
Who I am today is about being the mother of two college-graduated young men and stepmom to a beautiful married young lady, all of whom call me mom. It’s about the fact that our two boys, having chosen to live together in Manhattan for the past year even though the same arrangements weren’t ideal under our roof, somehow have grown to like each other. It’s about them wanting to be near their sister. And it’s about every Sunday dinner in Brooklyn around her table.
It’s about our kids, when given the choice, preferring to travel with us rather than without. It’s about them knowing that I will always answer their call, and that they will take mine. It’s giving them the latitude to be who they envision and allowing our home to be their salvation. It’s about the hours spent on the road and in the stands just as my parents did for me as they pursued their own dreams. It’s knowing when they need a friend and when they need a mother. And it’s only being as happy as my unhappiest child.
It’s as much about being introduced to a Joe Rogan podcast that my son swears I will like as it is taking them to a Billy Joel concert and belting out the words together to most of his songs. And it’s being in a family text that we all immediately respond to when prompted.
Who I am today has as much to do with my parents as it does my children. And whether I am whom I’m supposed to be, I can only thank god for being my parent’s daughter.
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