The author
is a 47-year-old wife and mother of 4 children ranging in age from 17 and
almost off to college, to 4 and still in pre-kindergarten.
She is a parenting
columnist who often writes about her own family life, so her children have
lots of recorded memories of their childhood, if they choose to read the
columns when they are grown.
But she wanted to
write an ethical will to filter a series of conversations she and her husband
have had over the years about their families of origin, their own children's
temperaments, and the proclivities of their children's generation.
For my children, words to last a lifetime
To my children:
You have been the delight of my life, the
crucible in which I became an adult. I remember each of your births. They
were the most wonderful days of your parents' lives.
I know that my oldest child, Matt, probably
wished sometimes he were the only child, and I have heard you two older
boys wonder aloud why we had the two smaller children. But four children
made an absolutely right-sized family for your father and me.
Tom Cruise said to Renee Zellweger in the
movie "Jerry Maguire," "You complete me." Well, each of you completed us
and our family. I hope and pray that you will cherish and nourish your
sibling ties as you grow up and grow old.
Because Dad and I are both wordsmiths and
storytellers, the written word has always been important to us. Read as
if your life depended on it; it does. Keep a diary; that way you can have
a record of your childhood.
Keep in mind we have a family weakness for
alcohol. You know that a couple of your uncles struggled to drag themselves
out of the depths of alcoholism. Be suspicious of intoxicants. They are
not the source of fun.
What is fun? Fun is running and shaking your
booty. Fun is singing; fun is dancing to the music of the television commercials,
as Maeve and Tom do. Fun is laughing, especially with those you love. Fun
is sledding down Mr. MacPherson's hill, and going camping. Fun is being
silly. Fun is discovering new things and new places, especially with those
you love.
As I write this, there are reports that the
Internet is starting to rob us of in-the-flesh personal connections. You
can have fun on the Internet, but don't live and die by virtual fun. The
most fun is face-to-face and touchable.
There's an old saying: "If it's worth doing,
it's worth doing well." Let me amend that to say: "If it's worth doing,
it's worth doing poorly." I fear that, more and more, your generation will
shy away from taking risks, believing we have conquered the conquerable
frontiers and that risks could endanger a comfortable status quo, a comfortable
self-image.
But if you don't try, if you don't stretch,
you don't develop. So try something you want to do that you've never done.
And if you do it poorly in the beginning, keep at it. You'll do better.
If it's worth doing, it's worth doing poorly. This message is aimed particularly
at you, Matt. Don't always take the safe bet.
Freud, the old goat, said we are shaped by
our work and our love. I believe that. We are also shaped by our whimsy
and our passion and, God willing, they intersect with our love and our
work. As I grow older, I also understand we are shaped by loss.
I am not especially church-oriented, but
every day I say that line from the Scriptures: "This is the day the Lord
has made: Let us rejoice and be glad."
I do believe we have a responsibility to
the larger community. The trick is figuring out how to contribute. That's
why Dad became a mentor to an urban kid. I tried to be helpful to readers
and viewers who contacted me. We always contributed to charities we deemed
worthwhile. I remember my mom sending small checks to Franciscan missionaries
when I was a girl.
Dad and I used to disagree about whether
a couple of our friends who died young had made a lasting contribution.
"They frittered away their talent," Dad would say. And I would respond,
"But maybe the purpose of their life was to pass a stranger on a street
corner and give him a smile at a critical juncture."
Now you may think I'm being overly dramatic,
but when I'm driving or walking outside, I make it a point to look at strangers,
to nod, to smile. Maybe that's the purpose of my life. Always reserve enough
leisure time and mental space to smile.
Through our work, your father and I have
met rich people and celebrities. Wealth and high profile are their own
challenges in life. I wish you enough money to support yourself, your family,
and the good causes of your choice, and enough celebrity to get across
the message you need to get across to those to whom you need to speak.
Matt, you seem to have a philosophical bent
and good people skills. You say you want to be a psychologist. Tamp down
any tendencies towards arrogance and let your native kindness and thoughtfulness
guide the people in your care.
Mike, you are most like me in looks, temperament,
sense of comedy, and writing ability. Try not to fight the similarities
too much. You are like a razor cutting through bureaucracy, inefficiency,
obfuscation, hypocrisy. Hone your sharpness to get across your message.
But try not to cut people out of your life with your razor-sharp wit.
Tom, you are such a sunny human being, the
kind of 6-year-old who blows kisses to his mom through the kitchen window.
Dad says you are most like him. Dad's advice to the adult you will become:
"Treat every person you meet as no better or no worse than yourself. Treat
everyone as exactly equal to you."
Maeve, you are the sole female of the siblings.
I have no idea whether domestic responsibilities will be more evenly balanced
between the sexes in marriages of your generation. At the age of
nearly 5, you are already observant, self-sufficient, self-defining, both
hearty and sensitive. I wish you the strength to become the very special
individual you already are, while nurturing relationships, friends, and
families.
One last thing: We have this family problem
with joke-telling. Nanny always told the punch line first, and then backed
her way down the buildup. One time, she gave the punch line "Wrecked 'em?
Damned near killed 'em!" and then gave the buildup for a whole other joke.
So always pre-play the buildup to the punch line in your mind before you
tell a joke out loud. This joke-telling inadequacy may be a genetic thing.
No matter how lost or disconsolate you may
seem at various points in your life, I hope this helps to bring you back
on track: That your parents loved you intensely, unconditionally, and imaginatively.
Remember my voice when I sang you "Tura, Lura" before you went to sleep.
Love, Mom
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