Gregory E. Lang's Blog, page 13
March 2, 2025
Why I Love Grandpa (Original Introduction, 2003)
Prominent in my home is a handsome dining table made of heart of pine. Large enough to comfortably seat ten adults, it is affectionately referred to as the “Table of Hearts.” My grandfather made it for my mother over 35 years ago, and she has given it to me. Built of salvaged wood, its top surface hand planed to a smooth finish and its legs hand turned from one of his patterns, the table is a daily reminder to me of my grandfather, Obie Lee “O. L.” Brown, master craftsman, father of seven and grandfather to eighteen.
My grandfather was a major figure in my early years, and although he died before I became a teenager, I carry his beloved memory with me still. Along with my parents, he is credited with shaping the man I have become, and next to my father, is the model for the grandfather I hope to become.
O. L. Brown was a self-taught maker of fine furniture. As a young boy I sat at his feet many an evening to watch Gun Smoke or the Red Skelton show, at his side when he drove the pickup truck to the hardware store, or across the table from him when on Saturday mornings we enjoyed a cup of coffee, mine mostly milk, and a bowl of cold cereal. When finished with breakfast we walked across the backyard to his woodshop where we stayed busy for hours until grandmother brought out ham sandwiches and sweet iced tea for our lunch. I was too young to help much, except for moving boards from one stack to another, or sweeping sawdust. He died when I was twelve. My eyes still water when I think about him, especially on Sunday mornings as I drink coffee from what was his favorite mug, now another of my most prized possessions.
O. L. was a tall, barrel-chested man who wore his hair cut close to his head, and nearly always dressed in overalls, and when he did, he carried a pencil in his pocket “just in case.” He made funny faces, played practical jokes, and carried candy in his pockets at all times. I remember many stories about his childhood and our family history, which he told to me while sitting on the front porch, and the afternoon rides we took into the country to see old houses where relatives once lived or churches once attended. I remember his desire to work and to make things with his hands, both of which he did until he was in his early seventies, and his pride when giving a just finished piece of furniture to one of his children or grandchildren. I remember how he would drive for hours to attend the homecoming picnics held at the old family cemetery, where we cleaned, weeded and repaired family plots under the hot Georgia sun before sitting in the shade of ancient oak trees to enjoy the lunch prepared by the women of the family. It is there where he was laid to rest, alongside my grandmother. Today, all these years latter, when I find myself driving into south Georgia, I take the short detour off the highway, to sit under the old tree in the cemetery, and to think of these people who were so important to me.
It was my grandfather who first impressed upon me the importance of family, of tradition, and of loving one’s work. These are values that remain with me today, that I try now to impress upon my child. I have placed several photographs of my grandfather around my home, and have enjoyed telling my daughter about him when the occasion arises. Like me, when I was a young boy, my daughter has only one grandfather to enjoy. I make sure that they have ample time to spend together, so that she is left with as many memories of growing up with him as I have of growing up with O. L.
My child, Meagan Katherine, loves her grandfather with the same intensity that I loved mine. Known to her as “Gramps,” my father is to her what my grandfather had been to me. He lets her know that she is special to him, and they have a rhythm when interacting together that is all their own. They play, tease and torment one another with pat names or taunts about embarrassing events of the past. They try to scare one another coming around corners, purposefully get in one another’s way, and embrace and kiss at the beginning and end of each visit. She looks at his old photographs and listens with great interest as he tells her about the people within them. He makes things for her, and she enjoys being with him in his shop. He explains to her what he is doing as he restores an old car, and they sit in rocking chairs on the front porch and talk late into the night, or watch television together until one of them falls asleep. Meagan keeps a picture of him and her grandmother on our refrigerator, and she laughs when she tells her friends about the last joke that Gramps played on her.
In my father I see the best qualities of a grown man that makes for a wonderful grandfather. He loves his grandchildren unconditionally, he remembers how to have fun, he comes to their aid without hesitation, and he extends a calm patience and understanding that sometimes eludes overwhelmed parents.
It was Meagan who first encouraged me to write this book, and its companion, “Why I Love Grandma,” as a way to memorialize our love for my parents and Mrs. Ann Hord, her grandparents. Together we made a list of what each of us enjoyed about our grandfathers, and we thought of what we admired most about the many grandfather – grandchild relationships we have witnessed. As she helped me in taking the photographs for this book she was touched by the personal stories that were shared with us, and those stories combined with our own to help us to write this book.
With this book Meagan Katherine and I celebrate the grandfathers we love, and recognize them for the many caring gestures that have been extended to us. We also celebrate the wonderful grandfathers that we met while creating this book, those who stand in when fathers are absent, who welcome new grandchildren into the family no matter what their origin, who give of themselves unselfishly and continuously, who travel great distances on short notice just because their company has been requested, who share traditions and willingly learn of new ways from young and delighted teachers, who remember their youth and relive it when given the chance to do so, and who speak with a wisdom and understanding that enriches the lives of those who are listening.
My child and I reviewed the first draft of this book while sitting at the Table of Hearts, the dining table that is to be passed on to her when she has a family of her own to bring together to enjoy a meal and time spent together. She pointed to the many scratches and dents that she as a child made on the table, once banging her fork to get my attention or working a bit too carelessly on a craft or school project. She asked me if I would ever refinish the table to remove these signs of use. “No,” I said. “Granddaddy meant for this table to remind us of what we have done as a family.” She then shared with me her favorite memories of family gatherings and other celebrations that have taken place around this table, and I smiled as I nodded in approval and whispered to the memory of O. L., “It does remind us, Granddaddy, it does.”
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February 28, 2025
Why a Baby Needs a Mommy
Perhaps the most joyous moment of my life was when I held my newborn daughter for the first time. In the world only a few minutes, a nurse held her out to me, wrapped snug in a keeping blanket. I eagerly but cautiously reached out and accepted her, taking great care to support her with both hands without holding her too tight, bringing her close to my chest to make sure I did not drop her, but not so close as to smoother her. I spoke to her in a near whisper, not wanting to startle her. “I love you,” I said, before leaning down to kiss her forehead. Her sweet smell filled my lungs, her skin warmed my lips, and her cooing delighted my heart. In those few moments the lives of her mother and me changed forever.
In addition to that momentous day, we’ve had many other memorable moments with our little girl, like watching her take her first steps, feed herself for the first time (most of the spaghetti ended up on her shirt), the first evening she went to bed without diapers, and my favorite, hearing the first time she called me “Daddy.” Nearly every day was fun and exciting, and yet nearly every day was challenging and at times stressful for either her mother or me.
She was our only child, and although we thought we had prepared ourselves well for her, we were fearful nonetheless, wondering if she was comfortable in our arms, was she wrapped too snug, was she hungry or sleepy. I had watched my mother take care of my younger siblings, and my aunts take care of my many younger cousins. My wife and I read books to educate ourselves about infants, we listened to family and friends as advice based on experience was given, and we took home and saved all the instructions the pediatrician had given us. Still, sometimes we didn’t know what to do, so we learned by trial and error, trying to read facial expressions, interpret baby jabber, remember schedules, and anticipate what need might arise next. We were afraid we would do something wrong, we feared causing some long-lasting harm, and we struggled with our confidence on difficult days when we could not please our unhappy child.
There were times that we wondered out loud what she needed from us, when we disagreed about what to do, and when we tried anything we could think of to handle the challenge of the moment. There were times when we doubted our abilities as a parent, when we wondered if my daughter would turn out all right, having been raised by inexperienced parents such as we were back then. There were times when I wanted desperately for her just to speak to us, to tell us what it was that she needed.
Those were the days that I wished she had come with a book, a parent’s manual that described all possible infant behaviors and strange noises, reasons for tears, how to stop a runny nose, explanations for the different colors of poop and what to do for each one. Such a manual would have saved us a lot of frustration and doubt, a few temper tantrums, and perhaps made my daughter a bit more content with her parents. But alas, no such book existed.
We tried to be perfect parents. We took her to most of the places she wanted to go, bought all the stuffed animals that would fit in her room, gave her the snacks she demanded even though we didn’t want her to have them, and read to her at night long after she could read for herself. But we did not do everything right. I’m sure we fell short more times than we would wish to count.
Fortunately, Her mother and I learned from our successes as well as our mistakes, and from the insights we shared with each other. We learned that children are loving, resilient, and forgiving, but they are also delicate and impressionable. They will forgive us for most of our mistakes as long as our intentions were well placed and we do better the next time, but they cannot thrive in our indifference, carelessness, or anger. We learned that children have many needs that require the purposeful service of devoted parents. While some of these needs are real only during early childhood, others endure for a lifetime and are staggering in their importance and effect if unattended. Some needs change, evolve, become less pressing, and others grow in importance as time goes by. Some needs must be met only once; others are never met but require constant feeding. Our children’s own sense of worth is determined in large part by the worth they believe we have placed in them, which is demonstrated by how attentive we are to their needs instead of our own.
Today our young adult daughter cannot recall all the care that her parents gave her, yet she knows of it. That is why now and then when she visits either of us she still reaches for a hug before departing, or calls on the phone in near bursting exuberance to tell about something she has conquered that day. These are the moments when we are rewarded for what we did years ago; these are more of the moments, like those of her infancy and early childhood, we will remember for all of our remaining days. These are the moments when I can smile and believe that her mother and I have done a pretty good job as her parents.
We never did find that manual, so I decided to write one. I do not hold this book out as the exhaustive book of wisdom that all new parents need to read in order to raise perfect children. However, I believe that somewhere there are parents lying awake at night, as my child’s mother and I once did, wondering what to do for their beloved baby. I hope that by sharing a bit about what I have learned, that giving a child a loving, supportive start in life, that taking care of a few basic, universal needs, those parents will find confidence in their abilities, comfort in their successes, and strength with each life lesson shared with their child. With this book I hope to give new parents, and especially moms, most often the primary caregiver, nurturer and teacher, a glimpse of what they should know about and do for their young children. When you put this book down, I hope you feel encouraged and appreciated for all you have done and have yet to do taking care of your own precious baby.
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Mom’s Little Angel
Almost immediately after the publication of my first book, Why a Daughter Needs a Dad: A Hundred Reasons, a book I wrote for my daughter Meagan, I began to receive email from readers asking, “What about moms?” Some were simply curious if a daughter-mom book was on my radar screen, others were rather indignant I had not written it first. All agreed mothers and daughters share a special relationship that deserved to be memorialized in a book.
Of course, I was well aware of the importance of moms in every child’s life – after all, I have a mother of my own. Memories of my childhood always include the many things my mother did to make sure I was well cared for and happy. She cooked my favorite foods, tended to my cuts and bruises, drove me to baseball practice, helped with my homework assignments, wiped away my tears, and endured the existential drama of my teen years, all the while making sure not one of her other four children were overlooked.
The truth be told, my mother did many things for me, most remembered, some forgotten, that when taken one at a time may seem somewhat inconsequential. But when all those things she did are taken together, the sum total staggers the mind. While I cannot think of a single super hero moment, I can think of thousands of little moments that added up like coins in a jar. Neither I nor my siblings can fathom the number and range of ways our mother has influenced the outcome of our lives.
Further proof of the importance of moms, especially in a daughter’s life, came to me courtesy of my child, Meagan.
While Meagan and I enjoyed a close and playful relationship in her youth, things began to change as she entered her teen years. Soon, it was to her mother whom she looked first and with whom she preferred to share her secrets. It became her mother instead of me who my child sought out for consolation, protection, and understanding.
Theirs was a language of shoes, seasonal clothing, reality television, and desserts that contained not a single calorie. Theirs was a relationship that at times I could not understand, at times was jealous of, and yet understood clearly was needed and deserved. It was for my ex-wife and my daughter that I eventually wrote the book Why a Daughter Needs a Mom: 100 Reasons.
And just as had happened after my first book was released, letters from mothers and daughters began appearing in my email.
Daughters wrote of how their mothers had always been there for them, holding their hands when they were afraid, tucking them in a night, baking green bread or cookies for Saint Patrick’s day, mending Barbie clothes, helping with weddings and coaching them during labor, never skipping a beat while wiping perspiration or calming a hyperventilating husband. I read tales of mothers sending change of address notices to Santa and the Easter Bunny, and mothers who set aside the enjoyment of their retirement years to care for a sick grandbaby with needs too great for an ordinary daycare to handle.
I also sat back and thought of my wife and how she has helped me not only with my step-daughter, Linley, but with Meagan, too. Jill has a talent for bringing a laugh to tense moments, of teaching me to ignore the pesky things the girls do that used to get my goat, of gently advising me in a way that I can listen to what she wants me to know or do differently. I jokingly say (well, sometimes seriously) she is helping me undo the damage I did to myself living so many years as a single dad with a willful daughter.
All in all, drawing from the daughter-mom correspondence and my observations of the three women in my household, I pay tribute to mothers and daughters for the beautiful relationship they share and how they enrich the lives of those nearest them. For as much as I’d like to believe that I’m an awesome dad and my daughter and step-daughter have bonded with me solely on the merits of my interactions with them, I know that the truth is I could never have become as close to either of them if not for help and influence of their mothers.
Moms, I hope that when you finish this book you will experience the gratifying sensation that comes after receiving affirmation and applause from your child. And daughters, after you’ve turned the last page, I hope you’ll give your mom a call to say “Thanks for everything.” And I hope you will have a better idea of what you are in for when you become a mother, too.
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Daddy’s Little Girl
For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to write a book. Although I am a terrible speller and not a particularly skilled storyteller, the idea of seeing my own words on bound paper has always been very appealing to me. I had no clue, however, of what to write about. Years passed as I daydreamed about becoming an author and suddenly I was thirty-eight years old and still without even a short story to show for my writing ambition.
One day while at work I had a conversation about my relationship with my then eight-year-old daughter, Meagan, my only child. A divorced dad with joint custody privileges, my daughter lived with me for two weeks at a time during each month. This on-again off-again visitation schedule at times created challenges for me, both at work and in my personal life. Yet, it also gave me a wonderful opportunity to be very involved in my daughter’s day to day activities. I organized my schedule around hers during the time she spent with me, skipping lunch in order to leave work early enough to pick her up from school and hosting slumber parties on our weekends together.
During that workplace conversation I was asked if I truly enjoyed the rewards of parenting, or were they overshadowed by the challenges I faced, a single dad raising a young daughter. I answered quickly and adamantly – the rewards were endless and worth any challenge or lost opportunity I had to deal with. For the remainder of that afternoon my thoughts were filled with one reason after another about why I would rather, and without hesitation, compromise my career and single lifestyle than my relationship with my beloved little girl.
A lifelong note-taker and list-maker, I sat down when I arrived home that evening and in short order wrote out a list of reasons why I thought Meagan needed me; indeed a list of why I also needed her. I ended up with one-hundred reasons.
That list was originally like so many others I had written before, an attempt to get thoughts on paper before they were forgotten. When I finished the list I read it over – once, twice, and then many times. Suddenly I saw my written words were perhaps more than a simple list – they were a tribute to our relationship, a reassurance to my child that her father will always love her, passionately and unconditionally, no matter what.
It was also, quite frankly, a tangible reminder to myself of the things I thought I should do for her, as well as the things I knew, and hoped, not to ever do as one of her parents.
When it occurred to me that I had read the list over a dozen times before putting it down, the idea for my first book was finally born.
Today when I ponder my relationship with my daughter and now also my step-daughter, Linley, wondering how best to handle or what to think of this or that situation, I often turn to the email and letters I’ve received from dads and daughters of all walks of life who wanted to tell me about their own relationships. Over the years I have heard from daughters who heaped praise on their dads and dads who told me of their hopes and dreams for their daughters.
It occurred to me on one occasion while reading these stories that perhaps with the advice and insight I’ve found in them, I could help other dads and daughters better understand their own father-daughter relationship. With that, the plans for Daddy’s Little Girl began to materialize.
I corresponded with my readers, asking them to elaborate on stories they had shared with me, and tell me new ones. I wanted to hear what dads and daughters had learned from each other, how their relationship had changed over time, what challenges they faces and how they dealt with them, and their recall of favorite memories and special moments.
I eventually received nearly four-hundred stories; stories that not only continued to teach me a thing or two, but which reassured me there are plenty of dads and daughters who want to celebrate their relationship by sharing it with an eager and appreciative audience. I received funny and heartwarming stories about birthdays, daddy-daughter dates, emergency room visits, graduations, weddings, late night chats in the dark and so much more.
As I read these stories, I began to notice a few common threads running through them: fathers and daughters have a tremendous capacity to love each other no matter how challenged their relationship might have been at one time or another. Furthermore, I realized no father ever thinks his daughter is too old to call on him for help of any kind, just as eventually every daughter realizes she, no matter what her age, will always be her daddy’s little girl.
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Why I Love You (original introduction, 2005)
One of life’s great experiences is falling in love so deeply one cannot imagine ever being without the other. Whether a first love, a new love, or a rekindled love, we universally experience the wonderful feelings that come when we find that special person – the intense feelings of attachment, the euphoric passion, the promise of a happy future together. Some of us find one true love and keep that partner for a lifetime. Others have love that eventually fades, but remain ever hopeful of finding a new and longer-lasting love one day. Some have not yet fallen in love and are searching for the person that will fulfill their romantic dreams. No matter where we are in our lives or what else may occupy our time, we all wish to have someone to love, someone who will love us in return.
When it comes to falling in love there are, I think, two kinds of people. The first is one who has a well-laid plan by which they seek a partner that possesses certain preferred qualities and characteristics. Upon finding such a person, they pursue a cautious and measured courtship, waiting for signs of reassurance before giving in to feelings of attachment, never taking too much risk, slowly and incrementally revealing more about themselves, until a respectable time has passed and a sense of comfort has been attained, before ever coming near uttering those three powerful words, “I love you.”
The second kind has no such plan or patience for caution. They will think nothing of the risk being taken when investing in someone, nor will they bother to proceed carefully, but will choose instead to reveal everything about themselves to whoever wishes to know them. These are the people who believe in serendipity, who trust their feelings and are led by their heart, who are on a relentless quest to find, earn, and keep love in their lives. These are the people who do not tiptoe into love, but instead know only to dive in, head first, with abandon. I am one of these people.
Exhilarated by the dive, I like it when my heart pounds so fast and strong that I can feel it in my chest and hear it in my ears. I enjoy the hope that swells inside, and I look forward to discovering what promise the relationship may hold. I don’t stop to think about what I am doing, but instead choose to feel my way along, not knowing if it will last but trusting to gain something worthwhile from the experience, giving of myself what I can and hoping for my affections to be returned. Sometimes I have been rewarded, and other times not. Sometimes I have been disappointed and hurt. Sometimes, regrettably, I have done the disappointing and hurting. Yet, through it all, I have continued to approach relationships in the same way, head first, without hesitation, hoping each time to find the relationship from which a lasting love would grow.
I have been in love more than once. Although at times I have been heartbroken, I have few regrets about these failed relationships because each of them, from high school infatuations to relationships of my adulthood, has fulfilled a special need in my life at the time, helping me to discover more about myself and improving my understanding of intimacy and commitment. For me, each relationship has been another step in the journey to a more meaningful capacity to truly love someone. I have learned much along the way.
I have learned that love is like a diamond, hard and durable, yet if handled carelessly, can cleave into worthless fragments. A relationship must be cared for and nourished if it is to remain whole. Care and nourishment may take many forms, like sending love letters, bringing home flowers, or planning romantic evenings together. Care and nourishment can also be simple, like speaking from one’s heart and telling the other of the love that is inspired within you. I have learned that love involves risk, and it is only after taking risk and finding that no harm will come that a deeper love can grow. I have learned that love involves work. It brings with it challenges and compromises, and it sometimes brings tears, but with the desire to carry out one’s commitment with passion and persistence, it is work worth doing and even more love is the reward. Above all, I think the most valuable lesson I have learned is that love cannot go unexpressed. Signs of love must be demonstrated and words of love must be spoken if love is to continuously flow with vigor. It is this lesson that has brought me to write this book.
Recently and unexpectedly, a great and wonderful blessing has visited upon me, and the next time—the last time—has come. I have met a woman, a woman who reminds me each day why I enjoy being in love, a woman who is teaching me more about loving than I have ever known. She gives me acceptance, kindness, and grace that compel me to better myself for her enjoyment. She pleases all my senses, stimulates my mind and passions, and encourages my ever-increasing hunger for her company. She lets me love her the way I want to and welcomes all that I have to give her. She tirelessly shows her love and enthusiasm for me. I have told her of my many weaknesses and trespasses, and she has not retreated from me. I have revealed to her my fears, and she has comforted me. I do not know how I became so fortunate, but I know I am.
It is because of this woman that I, for the first time, now question myself and my past relationships, worrying that the way in which I have conducted myself leaves me suspect when I tell her how I feel about her. What if I cannot adequately express to her what she has come to mean to me or why she is different from those I have known before her? I worry that I cannot say something original to her, or do something for the first time with her, that I will be unable to make it clear to her and to others that this time, it is different. Out of this worry comes a determination and resolve to do the only thing I know how to do, but to do it better than ever before, and that is to just dive in. So it is with this book that I fearlessly walk to the edge and declare to her that I want to be with her—now and always. When I first place it in her hands, it will be with this book that I tell her, “I love you, and I want to tell you why.”
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Why a Son Needs a Mom (original introduction, 2004)
On my mantelpiece rests an aging photograph of my mother that was taken as she was about to graduate from high school, a few short years before she chose to alter her life and become a mother. She was beautiful then, with hair that fell upon her shoulders, big eyes that reassured, and a smile that warmed. I am told she was energetic, vivacious, and popular back then, when she was young and had only herself to be concerned about. This photograph is my favorite picture of my mother, and although it has yellowed and faded, it has been lovingly displayed wherever I have lived, and serves to remind me of the nest from which I flew, the home my mother kept for my four siblings and me and the bosom to which I always return, one of unconditional love and acceptance.
My memories of childhood include the many things my mother did to make sure my siblings and I were well cared for and happy. Every day began with a hot breakfast, often including biscuits made from scratch, lunchboxes were filled with what we each liked to eat, and dinner always included someone’s favorite food. With a family so large, cooking consumed much of her time. My passion for cooking and belief that it is a sincere gesture of love can be traced back to my mother and the way she never failed to bake a birthday cake of choice, bring soup to the child sick in bed, alter recipes to suit our tastes, and make the house smell like the approaching season or holiday. But our mother did far more than cook for us to let us know she loved us.
She made clothes for us, tended to our scrapes and cuts, drove us to our respective after school activities and cheered for us, sought out obscure but coveted gifts for Christmas, helped with difficult homework assignments, wiped tears away and endured tantrums, all the while making sure not a child was overlooked, doing or giving whatever each needed, as though she had nothing more important to do. My mother helped me negotiate my conflicts with my dad, she taught me to ride a bicycle, balance a checkbook, sew on a button, check a turkey to make sure it was done, change a diaper, treat a cold, and years later, how to determine what my own infant needed when she cried. My mother did many other things for me that taken one at a time may seem inconsequential, but when taken all together, made me who I am. She also did things for me that others are unaware of, and knowing her, I am confident I am not alone in that privilege. But still, our mother did far more than these kinds of everyday maternal tasks to let us know she loved us.
Each son eventually presented our parents with a unique set of challenges, and my mother was unfailing in her ability to deal with what came. If she was ever disappointed in either of us, any sign of it was overshadowed by her actions. One son got into trouble, and my mother was there to help find a different path. One fell onto hard times, and my mother was there to help ease the burden until times got better. Another could not see beyond a broken heart, and my mother was there to offer comfort and bring hope. One child became sick, and my mother was there to provide care. Our mother has loved us collectively, but also individually in a way that expresses to each of us, in the way that only a mother can express, that she is, and shall remain, there for us, no matter what. Gone from her nest but never from her heart, fully grown but always her beloved son or little girl, each can call upon her still, and she will come. It is this, her unwavering devotion, her tireless effort to help, her unshakeable faith in our goodness, her absolute belief in our worth, that let us know then and lets us know now, that we are loved.
I am the first of five children, and over the forty-plus years since my birth I have seen much change about my mother, and I have seen much remain the same. Although now much older than the young woman in the photograph I treasure, her eyes still offer reassurance to whomever she gazes upon, as does the gentle touch she gives while listening intently to whatever one shares with her. Her smile still warms, as does her laughter and the heartfelt embrace all have come to expect when coming upon her. I still receive birthday cards, enjoy a favorite meal when I go home, and hear from her the applause and affirmations that tell me she is proud of my accomplishments. Now walking more slowly, her hands less able than they once were, her health requiring more and more concessions from her, she struggles at times to keep up with her former pace. Yet, in spite of these changes, she always manages to be there when needed.
I do not know what my mother’s dreams were, what plans she had in mind for herself as she grew up, where she wanted to visit or what she might have become if she had chosen to live her life differently. I am ashamed that I do not know these things because I have never thought to ask, but I also do not know because my mother has never uttered a word of disappointment about the life she has lived. I do not know of her regrets for she does not share them, if they exist, nor does she lament about what her life used to be like or otherwise give off signs of disappointment about what age has taken from her. Perhaps she has just accepted her life for what it is, thinking it is too late to change it. Or, perhaps she is happy with her life for what it has been. It is the latter, I like to think, because I know my mother has enjoyed being a mother, and a grandmother, and a surrogate mother or grandmother to those in need who have been fortunate enough to enter her life. I know this, because she never fails to seize the opportunity to act like a mom, to be there for someone.
I love my mother dearly, and I have a long list of things I want to do for her one day, but most of all I want to tell her “thank you”. I believe that a child, especially a son, can never express enough gratitude for what a mother has done. I know that I cannot, except that I know what I will do to try. I will do what my mother did for me: I will be there when she needs me, no matter what. I love you, Mom.
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Why a Daughter Needs a Mom (original introduction, 2004)
I enjoy a close relationship with my daughter, Meagan Katherine, albeit one that has changed remarkably as she has matured into a young teenager. Once my constant companion, my playful partner in crime, my most adoring audience, my child has become less enchanted with me as she has entered the initial phases of becoming a woman. Gone are the days of holding hands in public, kissing on the lips, and waking up to find that she had slipped beneath my bedcovers sometime during the night. These treasured gestures of affection are now replaced with brief and discrete touches, perhaps just our checks being pressed together for only a moment, small talk, her need for privacy, and the occasional impatient admonishment, “Dad, I am not your little girl anymore.”
Sometimes I struggle with feelings of loss, and sometimes I cannot resist the impulse to implore that my daughter confide in me, to tell me what thoughts occupy her mind and what feelings beat in her heart. Sometimes I hang my head and worry that something has happened to us, that we will never again be as close to one another as we once were. Sometimes I fret that I cannot understand what my child needs, why she acts as she does, and I cannot figure out what it is I should do for her. These thoughts occur to me when I am alone and my judgment is clouded by my sorrow. Thank God for moments of clarity, when I realize and then tell myself that these changes that perplex me are what should be expected, and what should be supported, if indeed I intend for my child to become the strong, independent woman I hope for. It is then that I accept without reluctance the fact that a dad cannot be everything to his daughter. It is then that I remember so clearly that she needs her mother, too.
Becky, my ex-wife, and I have been divorced nearly ten years, and we share joint custody of our daughter. Meagan lives for a time with me, and then her mom, and back to me. Becky and I live only a few miles apart. We have keys to each other’s home, we talk on the telephone often, share meals together now and then, negotiate agreements about enforcing household rules or extending new privileges, resolve disputes about what we might do differently in our relationship with our only child, and help each other in the care of our beloved daughter. Long ago we agreed that while we did become ex-spouses, we will never become ex-parents. It is as parents that our partnership lives on, and it is as parents that we overcome our own issues with one another to find a way to do what is best for Meagan. It is in that role, as my partner in parenting, that Becky has been most valuable to me, especially as I learn to accept that my daughter is, most certainly, not a little girl anymore.
As my relationship with Meagan has changed, so too has her relationship with her mother. Now her most trusted confidant, Meagan enjoys lengthy and enthusiastic telephone conversations with her mother discussing boys, girlfriend spats, celebrity news, or the latest reality television show. Now her fashion consultant, Meagan and her mom shop for hours, get their hair and nails done, and agree that when a girl packs her bags, she must include an abundant selection of shoes. Now her preferred safe harbor, Meagan turns to her mother for consolation, protection and understanding. As a woman, it is Becky who can comprehend what I cannot. As a mom, it is Becky who can give what I cannot. I admit that I look upon their relationship with an occasional twinge of jealousy, but also always with deep joy and satisfaction that it is what it has become. Their relationship is not only good for them, but for me as well. It is after a late night telephone call from Becky to explain to me what I could not yet see, or to comfort me about my parental insecurity that stings like a bee in my throat, that I am thankful that she is the mother of my child.
A daughter needs a mom for many reasons, and by the very nature of the differences between men and women, some of these reasons may never be clear to me, but that does not negate their vital importance in a girl’s life. Daughters need moms to help them to understand what is happening to their bodies, how to make sound decisions regarding boys, how to care for herself, how to care for her children, and how to care for her marriage. Daughters need moms because they understand that sometimes tears come for no reason, that bad moods may mean simply nothing at all, that chocolate is a necessity, that being silly is fun, and that everything does not have to be practical or in accordance with a schedule. Daughters need moms because dads cannot be everything for them. Daughters need moms to help them grow into the wonderful women they have the potential of becoming. Daughters need moms because without them, daughters will have less in their lives than they deserve.
I am not a mother, nor am I a daughter, and therefore in the minds of some perhaps ill equipped to write this book. However, I am an astute observer, and I am a member of a family. My family, comprised of a dad, a mom, and a child, is not unlike many, if not most other families. It includes laughter and tears, hugs and arguments, surprises and disappointments, giving and taking, and sacrifices and rewards. Although she lives in two houses, Meagan still has one family because her mother and I parent her together, love her together, and compromise with one another on her behalf. It is in gratitude to Becky for helping me to give Meagan a sense of family that I wrote this book. It is with this book that I hope to give other daughters and moms cause for celebrating what is unique and special about their relationship. With this book I hope that the story of Becky and I will stir other ex-spouses to rally around their children and embrace the role they share as parents, and in doing so, to give their children a family experience, even if in two homes. With this book I reassure Meagan that I understand, accept and encourage her as she grows into a woman and reaches beyond me for that which she needs. And with this book, I say to Becky, thank you. Thank you for giving me such a wonderful gift, our child. Thank you for being such a great mom, giving to Meagan what I cannot. And thank you for continuing as my partner, giving me friendship when I need it most.
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