Search Salon

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

United nations of nannies
I wanted to be Lady Liberty, but my nannies from foreign lands never became part of the family.
By Cecelie S. Berry
[02/11/00]

Pet a lamb, go to prison
Law and order in Ann Arbor is tougher than you think.
By Monica Finch
[02/10/00]

Oxymorvan
My husband wants me to be a mother in a minivan. I want to be a hot mama in motorcycle boots.
By Laurie Wagner
[02/09/00]

Goodbye forever
A mother signs away her son.
By Beth Broeker
[02/07/00]

Welcome to Planet Pinkwater
Who could resist a place where chickens sing, avocados think and real estate agents are extraterrestrials?
By Paul LaFarge
[02/04/00]

Complete archives for Mothers Who Think

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Dear Jon,

How are you? I so enjoyed the day we spent together yesterday. I really think we've got something special. Not that I'm asking for a commitment.

I felt this letter had spawned even more layers of ambiguity, which became more disastrous with each syllable. I sent it off to my mother, pointedly noting that her suggestions would be useful.

But still she was silent.

In my solipsistic rage, I generated draft after draft of my love letter. Each eventually turned into a rant against my own inadequacies -- a common enough stratagem in love letters. To make oneself seem pathetic is the oldest trick in the book. Love chugs along smoothly when one lover encourages the perception that the other is stronger. In my case, it was difficult to determine the dominant party.

I had just about given up. Finally, I received my inspiration in the morning mail. My mother had been listening all along. At long last, she had taken it upon herself to respond.

I had to applaud her terse assessment of my efforts: "My son, you are 24 years old. Live."

Enclosed was a love letter my father had sent her. And, boy, was it a beauty:

I write in this early morning hour, parted from you for just a while, yet missing you terribly, consoled only by the image of you resting and dreaming of me -- a greater gift than I thought I could ever have, far more than I ever hoped for and infinitely more than I deserve. And yet, there it is. What a gift, a blessing, a miracle we have in love. Happy Valentine's Day, my darling.

Sobering as it was, even this didn't have the desired effect. Even my own father was more romantic than I.

How right Hesiod was to describe Eros as the god "who breaks the limbs' strength" and "overpowers the intelligence in the breast." I concluded that I could distinguish myself as a young writer working in other genres. So I went to the grocery store and, alongside the hordes of married men, bought a Hallmark card for my beloved, and left it at that.
salon.com | Feb. 14, 2000

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

  Get a printer-friendly version

  E-mail a friend about this article

  Backflip this article to find it again

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Search Salon