Mothers: David's.

Josh had the idea that we should write about the fictional mothers and fathers we'd like to emulate. I can't think of many or much detail for mine, in part because many of the books I've loved are about orphans, or the mothers are beautiful, tragic creatures who die young and early in the story.

One of these tragic mothers is in The Book of Lost Things, which I still haven't made much progress in (due to my own distress and fatigue rather than any flaw in the book). David sees her as a figure both familiar and mysterious, tangible and mythical. 

"He sat up late into the night, squashed into a corner of the living room while grown-ups exchanged stories of a mother he had never known, a strange creature with a history entirely separate from his own...a beautiful woman in a bright red dress who was stolen from under the nose of another man by David's father... (Connolly 5-6).

I want Oliver to see both my best self, and when he is ready and wants to, my flaws, history, and humanness. I don't plan to keep secrets. I don't want him to suddenly find out something that makes him doubt himself, his origins, or his safety. I do, however, want him to see I am not only my roles, just as he will not only be his.

"...he would step often quietly into the room in which his mother was reading, acknowledging her with a smile (always returned) before taking a seat close by and immersing himself in his own book so that, although both were lost in their own individual worlds, they shared the same space and time." (Connolly 4).

This is one of my most important aims: to model a love of books, reading, paper. I want to provide books for him and show him, rather than tell him, how fascinating and vital stories are, whether we find them or make them.

"He thought of his mother's voice...as a symphony, capable of infinite variations on familiar themes and melodies that changed according to her moods and whims" (Connolly 4).

When I first spoke to Oliver face to face, I knew he knew me. Now when I speak or sing, he doesn't usually look toward me immediately. He continues looking at the leaf pattern on his bed or the shadows on the wardrobe, but he changes--a calm or hint of delight tickles his face. I want that to remain true: though my voice will not always capture his attention, I want it to be a source of comfort, something that makes him feel safe and loved as he becomes himself.



Connolly, John. The Book of Lost Things. New York: Washington Square Press, 2006. 4-6. Print.