These days, because my frame of mind is different, I’m able to think about the positive things I took from my childhood—maybe in an effort to understand in as much detail as possible how I can best support my own kids. I also think that when we go through the process of deprogramming or unlearning, we can look at the past in a new way, and the negative aspects of it don’t maintain the same hold over us that they used to.
I remember my mom would scratch my back when I was little, and nothing felt better than that. She had a way of scratching my back that nobody else could replicate. She also used to rock me to sleep sometimes, and I loved being on her lap. I identify very much with some of my mom’s food too. When I make meatloaf for my kids, I always say to them: “You know who made great meatloaf? Omie.”
It’s interesting to realize the conflicting ways my mom has lived on in my life.
Again, my parents may have trampled on their kids a bit, but I don’t think it was ever consciously intended to hurt. It was what they’d experienced growing up—the ideology that you don’t make your kids feel too comfortable or too complimented or give them too much approval because withholding all of that will toughen them up. And I laugh, because I know the best way to toughen kids up is to make them feel secure.
There was always an awkward disconnect between my parents and me. Even so, they were very much about being there for me. It may have been inconsistent and erratic because of their histories, but unlike a lot of parents, they always said, even when I was an adult, “You can call us at any hour.”
That was not the case with many people I knew. Their parents would tell them not to call after ten p.m. My parents? I remember calling them in the middle of the night. Despite whatever they lacked, they were there for me in the best ways they could be. And that’s important. When I split up with somebody in my early thirties and was pretty broken up, my mom came into the city to see me. It was an odd juxtaposition: despite their shortcomings, my parents were always concerned for me. When I was going through my divorce in the late 1990s, I called my mom and sobbed on the phone.
So I have to say that despite all the odd or unhealthy aspects of our relationship, my parents were there in ways a lot of parents are not. I certainly often focus on their deficiencies, but they both had another side that was very committed and devoted. And that is the side I wish to emulate—I hope without the rest.
This comes back around to the idea that we never die, because who we are lives on, for better or worse, in our children and their children. Who we are, and who we become, has consequences. How we live matters, because it’s what we pass on to our children and those around us—and it’s what outlives us.
My mom’s spirit lives on in what I carry of her. I can’t make meatloaf without thinking of her. I can’t eat it without thinking of her. I made it during one of my dad’s recent visits, and it was clear to him what it meant. So, yeah, I carry the good and the bad. The bad I’ve come to terms with, and the good I embrace fondly.
I certainly hold memories dear that keep my mom alive for me. Still, though I don’t quite understand it, I don’t find myself missing her. Before she died, I was afraid of her passing away, and then it turned out differently than I’d expected. Her death was huge the day it happened, of course—it was life changing. We are always our parents’ children. But ever since she’s been gone, I haven’t missed her. Physically she’s not here, but whatever I got from her is. So for some reason the only void I feel is that I don’t get to see her, but that’s the only thing that’s changed. What I experienced with her is all still here.
When my dad’s gone, it will be much tougher—because I still have a connection to my parents through him. The more profound loss is when both parents are gone, because then we’re orphans; no matter how old we are, we’re then children without parents. Once my dad’s gone, I fear I’ll become what we all really are inside: a kid. And at that moment, we are children who have been abandoned, for lack of a better word. That eventuality is something I wrestle with.
I’m well aware with all my children, at their various stages of development in life, that I’m an integral part of who they are and who they will become, and I embrace my role. There’s comfort in knowing that my path to immortality will be paved by helping my children find their own road. It’s hard for people to think of the world without them or of no longer existing. Most religion as it’s written and articulated is just a way for people to come to grips with the finality of life. I don’t have a problem with that, because in my mind, people continue to exist. Stories of an afterlife may help people in their struggle with the idea of the world without them. But guess what? The world existed before we were here, and it will continue without us. We leave our mark, and at least for me, that provides a sufficient sense of comfort.
There’s consolation in knowing that we continue. Though that didn’t come into play for me until I had children. Until then, I used to wonder what life was about. What was the point? Well, now I know the point is what we do in our lives and what we leave behind. That is very calming and has put a lot of my questions to rest.
So, in the same way, my mom and dad continue on through a meatloaf recipe or memories of my back being scratched or going to a museum. They are both still with me.
And because of how involved I am with my children—and I see it already with Evan because he’s older—I know I’ll be there that much more.
We get out of something what we put into it. And what we put into our children is paramount to who they become and how much of us continues in them. In that way, we are linked. They know it and we know it. Evan and I are very close because of things we’ve gone through and spoken about and shared. That started at an early age. And I already see instances of this in Colin, Sarah, and Emily as well, in the questions they ask and in how Erin and I respond. They are all a continuation of our input, our influence, our spirit. That’s really what this is all about: our spirit lives on in those around us, in the people we affect the most.
Obviously, for me, children are a part of that equation. But we live on, too, through interactions with nonfamily members, through things we do for others. We can never do too much good, and each time we do good, there are two beneficiaries: the person we help and ourselves. Yeah, I know it sounds corny. If somebody said this to me twenty or thirty years ago, I would’ve thought it was dopey. But perhaps as we move farther down the conveyor belt, we can start to figure out what the endgame is. And it really is true that helping other people achieve their goals or helping them through their struggles means they carry us with them. When we do something good for someone else, they remember it.
The greatest thing I did in life was to stop being judgmental—stop judging and stop being intolerant or unsympathetic. Once I let go of those things, the world looked better. It looked less ominous, and it looked less menacing and ugly. Doing something like that adds a whole existential aspect to the concept of taking pride in what we do and doing things for the sake of our own personal edification. There’s a kind of cosmic scope to it as well. Because it’s not all for nothing. That’s what I used to believe, and a lot of people probably also believe—that it’s all for nothing.
What’s the point?
Well, it turns out the point is that we can make our mark, a mark that will keep us present beyond the time we’re here on Earth. It’s impossible for us to live forever, but our spirit can, through what we impart to the people around us.