“I am willing to live with your mistakes,” Ducky said. We were sitting in the living room of her apartment, looking out over the river.
I was living in The House, and had just finished telling her the latest details of the construction project next door. It was a massive undertaking that involved a portion of Ducky’s land. She had been on that land her whole life, her parents had been on it all of theirs. It was the beginning of the end.
We had the power to deter the project, but if we abused that power we’d be in a lawsuit that could destroy us. However, the land would have to be sold when Ducky died, and the project could drastically lessen its value. Someone needed to advocate aggressively for her interests and protect the asset for her children and grandchildren.
“We need you to do this,” she said. There was no urgency in her voice — there almost never was. Just a pragmatism: I was too young, but she was too old, and it had to get done. “We need you,” she repeated.
I told her what I thought the best move was. She nodded. I suggested instructions for the lawyers and she said to go ahead.
“But I could be wrong,” I cautioned. I could be really, disastrously wrong.
The House weighed heavy — but far worse was the specter of failing her. What would it be like to destroy what she had devoted herself to build?
“I am willing to live with your mistakes,” she said. She was sitting back in her chair, leveling an arctic blue gaze on me. “You will make them. You won’t be perfect. But I think your chances are quite good and I am willing to live with whatever happens.”
“Okay,” I said.
The House started to lose its magic for me at that time. The meetings, the e-mails, the constant weighing of strategies. I couldn’t look out the window without wondering whether I had made the right call about this aspect or that. I couldn’t go down the driveway with the kids without running into someone I was in an adversarial relationship with.
Every week, I made the drive to Ducky’s apartment and reported on developments.
“So what’s the next move?” she would ask.
I would outline my plan, the possible faults with it, the reason I thought it was the way to go. “Very complicated doings,” she would say, setting aside the folder. “How is Young Mary enjoying preschool?”
I wondered whether maybe she was losing her mind a little.
She wasn’t. She retained the facts from one conversation to another. Sometimes she was waiting with the file open and a question. She always trusted my answer, nodded, and then changed the subject. Sometimes her question would make me consider an alternate route, but she never told me what to think and she never offered an opinion of my choices.
I was on my own, but her hand was warm on my back.
My last years at The House were a deathwatch that consumed my life. I despised living there and I dreaded leaving.
And then it happened: the project was complete, Ducky died, and The House was sold (value intact), all in about two months. La Casa Loony Tunes moved to the Tilty Floored Farmhouse to begin again.
Cute Husband asked me many times over the course of those years whether it was worth it.
The answer always was that I wasn’t going to abandon Ducky, no matter what.
But I didn’t expect the gift she would leave me in return.
There is no perfection, no life without sorrow, no relationship without its wrong turns. The romantic surrender to love has no depth. It is the surrender to imperfection that builds life.
She taught me that in those last years, when she taught me what it is to know that someone has forgiven your mistakes in advance of your making them.
“Nikki is my frenemy,” Mare says. She is writing a note to Nikki in dark crayon.
As the baby that Mary was disappears further into the past, that baby-love I had for her fades, too. It will always be there, buried in that little body I grew and nursed and carried on a hip for so many months. But an increasingly complex person is occupying that body now, and an increasingly complex love develops between us.
“Your what, now?” I ask. I dread this, the Girl Thing that brought such agony to my youth.
“She told me on the playground that she didn’t like my hair and she’s supposed to be my friend but she isn’t and then she and Robin said I could only be friends with them …” she goes on. My head hurts.
“I think your best bet,” I say, “is to find other friends.” And then I can’t believe I said that, because it’s useless advice and every bit of useless advice I utter put me one mark closer to Stupid Mother.
“It sounds very challenging,” I finally say. And then offer no advice at all.
Maybe it will be her destiny to be Popular. Maybe it will be her destiny to engage in female politics for a year or a decade or a lifetime. It isn’t for me to say.
I can tell her to do her homework and to keep her elbows off the table. I am in charge of how much television she watches and what she wears.
But I can’t tell her how to think or what to value. She’s going to have to work that one out on her own.
And I am learning to live with her mistakes.
and our own… that’s what I’m confronting these days — acting rather than hesitating.
“She taught me that in those last years, when she taught me what it is to know that someone has forgiven your mistakes in advance of your making them.”
I absolutely love this!!!!! Huge life lesson in that one statement!
I might just steal it for my fb profile! Well, not steal it, I’ll link back to you of course if you don’t mind!
My 7 yrold daughter is going through the same things at school as Mary is these days, I’m afraid it will never end. I’m even seeing it in the 4/5 yrolds in my sons preschool, not just girls either, sad.
Some days your writing makes my heart feel achey, but I’m always glad to have read it. What a beautiful piece. Thank you for the continued reminders to pay attention to the journey.
A great reminder for parents of 7 year old girls.
When I watch my daughter with her friends after school I am desperate to offer suggestions to help her be less awkward socially. It is so hard to stay out of it but stay out of it I must!!!
I can see it coming with my 5-y.o. daughter. All I can think to help is this:
God, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
the courage to change the things I can;
and the wisdom to know the difference.
“There is no perfection, no life without sorrow, no relationship without its wrong turns. The romantic surrender to love has no depth. It is the surrender to imperfection that builds life.”
This is one of the most beautiful things I have ever read. Thank you.
“There is no perfection, no life without sorrow, no relationship without its wrong turns. The romantic surrender to love has no depth. It is the surrender to imperfection that builds life. ”
Beautiful…Thank you.
Thank you for this, Liz. I’ve been struggling with the maturing relationship I have with my 9 year old son and adapting to holding back and not fixing everything for him but I hadn’t even put that into words until I read this post!
And where did Mary hear the word “frenemy”? I hadn’t even heard it until about a year ago. Impressive that she used it appropriately.
Liz, That was a really beautiful post. Words of wisdom to keep in mind from Ducky…
Beautifully said.
FYI, if I could only read one blog ever, this would be it, too.
From previous posts, it is clear you have taught Mare how to be a real friend and how to stand up for herself when people are not real friends. Even if she endures the social aggression typical of the K-12 years, she will come out of it the victor.
She was a wise woman, your Ducky…and you are just as wise because you’ve learned from her so well.
Oh, my 4-year-old decided he can’t hear the Santa bell, either. Un-freaking-believable. The only good news is that he laughs when he says it. Ornery little thing!
You can advise but be prepared for your advice to be ignored. The important thing is to be there to comfort, pick up the pieces, support and just love.
Just found your blog ( I was attracted to “Motherhood is not for Whimps”. Like a good book, I cannot stop reading it….I’ve been sitting for here for over an hour. You have an enormous writing gift. Such beautiful, authentic words….thank you. It reminded me that I miss reading ( it seems all I have time for with an infant and 4 yr old is quick bursts of internet news) and I can’t wait to read more of your blog.