Me & Mom in 1970

Happy Mother’s Day, Pinkies. This post is my Mother’s Day gift to my Pink Mommy, so please humor me, as I get a little mushy and weepy and sentimental.

Dear Marme,

I’ll bet you don’t know that I remember sitting on our rickety sofa in San Diego when you brought Chris home from the hospital, back when I wasn’t quite two. He was so pink and sweet and snuggly, but until that moment, I’d had you all to myself, and I was unsettled by the change in our family. You knew this, as good Mommys do. With one arm around me and one arm holding my baby brother, you told me you had enough love for both of us. You said that love was like a magic penny- the more you give, the more you have. I remember that- and all the other magic penny moments of my blissful childhood.

I remember Easter egg hunts with hand-decorated eggs and chocolate bunnies hidden among flowers. My memories are set to the music of you playing the guitar in my elementary school classes, to campfire songs and sing-alongs lead by you and your angelic voice. I remember that you redecorated my bedroom every couple of years to reflect the changing woman I was becoming- out with the pink & green flowers, in with the more mature blue & rose tapestry (but always Pink!).

I remember summers at our farm in Georgia, where there wasn’t much to do, but you always invented adventures- climbing waterfalls, whooshing down the rapids in inner tubes, panning for gold in the river, and cooking marshmallows over an evening blaze. I remember the time Tonya Bailey glued together all the pages of the Melissa Gilbert book I’d so lovingly created over the years. Even though Tonya ruined my book and broke my ten-year old heart, you were there, with warm, wise words and big, loving hugs. You allowed me my pain, and rather than trying to fix me, you went there with me, with tears of your own. I still felt heart-broken, but no longer lonely, because my Mommy understood.

I remember that twelve was my door-slamming year. You were doomed, no matter what you said. I’d run off in a huff and slam my door in your face, which must have hurt, after all the Mommy love you gave me. Then, magically, I turned thirteen and said, “Mom, you’ve changed,” and the door-slamming ceased. I’m sure you just laughed, at the time, but I never saw you chuckle. Instead, you acknowledged my process and validated me, all the while knowing that the one who was changing- faster than my little body could understand- was me.

Later, I remember how you told me not to go to medical school just because Daddy was a doctor. You encouraged me to follow my own path, to forge ahead with my dreams, and to never make big choices just to please someone else. While I know you and Dad were proud that I went to medical school anyway, your words always gave me the certainty that I could choose my destiny- that I could quit if I hated it, that I could change my mind. I knew you were proud of me- not because of what I do, but because of who I am.

I remember how you planned my whole wedding, back when I was twenty-four and a second year medical student, up to my eyeballs in board exams and young, foolish love. With pain, I remember how I hurt you when you ordered stickers for the invitations and banners for the wedding that said, “Lissa Loves Kirk.” Back then, I cared more about what people would think than about the love that went into it. Now, as a mother myself, I can see that you went to great lengths to announce to the world my love for my new husband. But I shot down your love, invalidated your effort, and clung to my selfish notions of propriety. And yet, you loved me still. You sent your newly-married daughter off into the sunset in a horse-drawn white carriage, only to have us get hit by a car. Then, shaken and scared, you appeared, in your mother-of-the-bride dress, to rock me while I cried, as cops and ambulances picked up the pieces.

Many other fantasies have crashed and burned since then, and yet, just like that ill-fated wedding day, you have been there- steadfast and accepting, never judging, always loving. When I divorced Kirk, when I married Paul, when I left Paul. I’m sure raising a daughter who would be twice-divorced at thirty-three wasn’t in your plan, and yet, you were there for me, holding space for my tears and accepting me, in spite of my failures. When I moved out of the house I’d built with Paul and into a new, sterile home that didn’t feel like mine, who flew out to help me move, so I wouldn’t have to face the cold new walls alone? You.

When I finally married my true love and opted not to be the bride at a wedding bash a third time, you understood, and if your feelings were hurt that I said, “I do” without you, you never let on. Instead, you reveled in my happiness and let me do it my way- giving me wings, just as you have my whole life.

When I gave birth to Siena, you were there for me, even though Dad was only days from dying. With one hand, you nurtured Dad, with the other, you comforted me and my pain. Who was nurturing you, Mommy? Certainly not me- I was too caught up in my grief and surgical scars and leaky breasts and raging hormones. When Dad died and you threw yourself tearfully across his body, saying “David, I love the way you died,” who was there for you, to ease the pain of losing your forty-year love? How was I not there for you? Why did it have to happen that way, when I was so weak and you needed me to be strong? Thanks God for Becca and Lin- the wind beneath our wings during those painful weeks.

When Matt cut two fingers off his left hand with a table saw, who dropped everything to fly to San Diego and take care of me and my family while Matt recovered from eight hours of hand surgery? You did. When I quit my stable job in medicine to follow my dream- to paint, to write a book, to cut my ties to a world I understood but didn’t resonate with me, to begin the gestation of Owning Pink, who became my cheerleader? When I planned my first workshop, who brainstormed with me, throwing out ideas, helping me learn how to facilitate, how to build community, how to be a leader? When I decided to move my family, yet again, up to Marin County, who played with Siena, unpacked boxes, and forged her way-lost and alone- around our new neighborhood? You.

When I needed money to launch Owning Pink, who lent me the money?

And yet, I couldn’t be bothered to give you my car so you could go to Bistro when your knee hurt. No, I had to dig my heels in and prove something. What? I have no idea. But your silent tears reminded me that we only get this one chance in life to be the best version of ourselves. Thinking back over my life, I realize that I have been my worst self around you. Why is that? When you’re the one I love the most? I think it’s because you have made our relationship so safe that I haven’t had to try to please you. It’s been enough to feel exactly how I’m feeling in the moment. I’ve been so certain of your love that I’ve taken it for granted. What a gift you’ve given me- the absolute certainty that my mother loves, accepts, and supports me, even when I’m at my worst. I don’t know anyone with a more beautiful childhood than I had. I can’t think of a single person blessed with a more devoted, accepting, nonjudgmental, creative, fun, supportive, loving mother. So why have I not been a better daughter?

This is my mother’s day present to you, Marme. I’m going to change all that. I’m going to give you all of my best self, from this day forward. Why should you get stuck with the dregs of me, the bottomless pit of me, the selfish, bristly, bitchy version of Lissa? From now on, I’m going to make a conscious effort to give you the part of me that’s filled with love, graciousness, acceptance, gratitude, kindness, and appreciation. You deserve all that- and much more. I want to co-create with you, to build true friendship with you, to support you, to be the wind beneath YOUR wings, for a change. Will you help me do that? Will you teach me how?

I have much to learn, and I’m certain I will be flawed in my efforts, but my motives are pure. I love you, Mommy, and I hope we can make the rest of our time together on this earth sacred. May we have many more days of magic penny love.

I've been DJing on Twitter all morning, sending shout outs to all the Pink Mommys out there. I know you're not on Twitter, but I just played this one for you:


You are the Pinkest of the Pinkies, Mom, and if I can be only a fraction of the mother you have been, Siena will be one lucky little girl.
All my love,
Lissa