By Susan Aurinko
My mother, whom I always called Mommy, was a great beauty. Not celebrated nor acclaimed, just sweetly, quietly lovely. It wasn’t about the trappings of beauty, but about the kind of beauty that shines from within. She was kind, generous, and loving, supportive and open-minded, and met challenges head-on without complaint. At the age of 74 she suffered a stroke from a congenital aneurism that had been waiting in her brain all her life to explode, and when it did, they gave her a zero to 10% chance of living through the night. By some miracle, or just through stubbornness, she lived. A few weeks in a coma, another stroke, several neurosurgeries, and then the long road back, learning to speak, walk and even to swallow all over again – her toughness and persistence was remarkable, and her sense of humor remained intact. My sister and I were as proud of her accomplishments as she had always been of ours. She was forever my role model, my guiding light.
When I was born, after several years of marriage, Mommy took to motherhood like the proverbial duck to water. She dressed me impeccably, sewed my clothes and Halloween costumes, and horror of horrors, began giving me home permanents at a fairly young age – trying to convert my straight blonde hair to bouncy ringlets. To this day I remember that noxious smell as I sat (and sat) on the kitchen chair for what seemed like hours. I hated the perms, and I hated the tangles being brushed out of my long hair, so when I turned seven, she took me to Mr. Neff, her hairdresser, for a pixie cut, and that was that.
Fast forward thirty-three years to the birth of my own daughter, Thalia. I, like my Mommy, chose to be a more-or-less stay-at-home mom – I didn’t want to miss a minute of her all-too-short infant, toddler and childhood years. From the beginning I was enchanted by this little person who had entered my life. I modeled my mothering on my mom’s and found that designing and making Halloween costumes was one of the highlights of the year. I took Thalia on mother/daughter trips, and she now takes her daughter on mother/daughter getaways. And Thalia creates remarkable and imaginative Halloween costumes now for her daughter Fox. There is a wonderful sense of déjà vu in experiencing the repetition of these mother/daughter acts and events.
And then, when Thalia was in high school, we were presented with the opportunity to legally adopt another daughter as an adult, giving Thalia a big sister. She had come from a troubled home, and we considered ourselves blessed to become her new family. Although she is five years older than Thalia and we missed her childhood, she is a cherished member of our little family. My husband grew up in a large family, enormous compared to mine, but ours is just right, and we’re justifiably proud of both our daughters and our granddaughter. All three of them are accomplished and creative, and most of they are all kind and generous of heart. If my Mommy was still with us, she would be as proud and pleased as we are.
A dear friend recently lost her mother. Each time that happens to a friend it brings back my own loss. I still miss my Mommy terribly after a dozen years, but I’m so fortunate to have had her as my mother, my North Star. Alexandra, an artist friend in Paris, lost her mother some years ago. She told me that when she looks up at the sky at night, she likes to think of her Maman as the brightest star, twinkling in the darkness just for her. I’ve never forgotten that image and like to think the same. Being a mother is a fine art. Happy Mother’s Day to all of you who are or have/had mothers – this is the day we celebrate you and them!
I used all black and white photographs in this column as a nod to sentimentality. See you here next month, when I’ll be sending Dispatches from London and Paris!
Yours in art and mothering,
Susan
Already Into accessories at the age of four!
