22. It's not all about you.

This picture is from Hideous Kinky, which to me is the ultimate depiction of the "Me" mothering.

Okay, this might not be typically on blog point, but I think that what I am feeling and planning on conveying is related to aging gracefully, even if in a round about way.

I've had an interesting couple of weeks and I'm just now beginning to process all that's happened. I don't need to tell everything, but some of it is important, and it's particularly important if you're someone who questions every move you make, every word you utter, every look you give or breath you take. Some of it's private and would hurt people I love, and therefore, even if I find it important to a point I'm trying to make, out of respect for those people, I will refrain.

My birth mother is terminally ill and two weeks ago my son and I got on a plane to visit her, likely for the last time. I met her when my son was a baby, and he's now 11. I've kept in touch with her over the years, including a few visits and many phone calls and emails. I have siblings, one whom I don't know very well because he is, sadly, in jail and has been for a long time. One sibling died before I had much of a chance to get to know him, but there are two girls - much younger than I - and we are close. I've written essays and emails to friends and talked to therapists. I have left no stone unturned when it comes to figuring out what I feel, how it affects my life, and more importantly my son's life where this family is concerned.

Yet, when it came time to face the situation - to take a look at this woman who gave birth to me and was now dying, I wasn't sure how to feel. No one had told me what this would be like. There was no guide, no road map. What the hell was I supposed to be feeling? I felt like an outsider, to be honest. Was there something I should be feeling? Shouldn't I want to do everything in my power to help, to caregive, to pitch in, to be a good example to my son? What was I so scared of? But then something amazing happened. I was able to see her for who she was for the first time since I'd met her. There was great freedom in this. I didn't have the growing up issues my sisters did - I was removed, in a sense. We all shared blood, yes - but I'd had a whole other life. Other parents and siblings and a lifetime of memories with them, some good, some bad - some life altering. But a whole other family, nonetheless. With that came power and knowledge and compassion and perhaps some perspective I could share.

The thing is, for those of us born to parents of the 60s, those of us who grew up in the 70s and 80s, we really had to figure life out for ourselves. We were, in a very real sense, on our own. That "Me Generation" was very real, and I was a part of it. I know now how much my parents loved me and I have spent many years working through it and trying to overcome my alienation from that life. It's worked. I'm close to my family, we talk a lot and I see them twice a year and they're always there when I need them. But growing up, and my mom admits this, it was about them. Their needs, their desires, whatever worked for them and however us kids fit into the picture was kind of how things went. I'm sure, in fact I know, they thought they were doing a good job and I have too much love for them now to tell them "You know what? It sucked. It hurt. I was lonely. I had no idea what to do and no encouragement and way too much opportunity to get in trouble."

Back to Santa Fe and my dying birth mother. After seeing the dynamics that I missed by not growing up there, it finally occurred to me why I was there. I was there to assure her that I did not hate her for giving me up, I was there to try and convince her to let go of her wound and anger, and to start letting her daughters go so they weren't left with those same wounds after she was gone. It was now her gift to be able to say to them "I'm sorry. I was wrong. I messed up. You didn't deserve that." It is our job as parents, after all - to let our children have a voice. Let them tell us how mad they are and take it in the gut. It. Is. Our. Job.

One day my son will come to me with a list of all I've done wrong, and you know what? He'll be right. I will have to look him in the eyes and say "You're right, I was wrong, I'm sorry.

I hope it's not hard, because in the end it's not all about me. Or you. It's about them. Children or friends or siblings. Take it in the gut. It's the parting gift, I believe.