A Short Post About My Mom

It took my parents a few months to tell me they discovered my blog. There was no deep discussion about it, mainly because the only time we really talk is when we Skype, and then most of the time is spent trying to make Liam laugh.

But my mom did say, "You know I saw the blog."

By this point, my sister has already told me they knew, so I said, "Yes, I heard."

And my mom said, "People must feel sorry for you if they read it and see you don't have a mother. It's sad that you don't have a mother."

"Why? I only wrote about Dad? I didn't write anything about you?"

"No."

So here is a short post about my mother:

She was born in Paris. She found out she was Jewish in her early teens, when the kids in her class started calling her a Dirty Jew. She had to ask her parents what they meant. The family moved to Israel, where the kids now called her a French Whore.

In her early twenties, living in Tel-Aviv in the crazy '70s, she got to know all the Bohemians. The famous journalists and writers. They tried to get her high and they dedicated poetry books to her. I saw one of these books. She still keeps it.

She hitchhiked with her sister one day. My dad and his friend pulled over with their scooters.

They got married and had a girl. Then they got together again and made a boy.

That boy, a cute little thing, seemed promising at first, but he was also a bit weird, reading the phone book all day. Doctors told my mom her son was borderline autistic, so she bought me a soccer ball and taught me to kick it. All of my childhood friendships revolved around soccer. She still reminds me, "Who taught you to play soccer?"

My mom, my sister and I, used to have dance parties. It was the late '70s. We danced to some Disco. "You're okay. You're smart. You're in." And of course, "Funky Town." She only had one disco tape, but we didn't need any more. We also listened to a lot of French music. Charles Aznavour, Sylvie Vartan, and of course, Jacques Brel.

One day, I think I was about eight, we were walking from our house to the bus stop, and she held my hand and asked me, "Do you know what's the most beautiful thing in the world?" And I said, "What?" because I wanted to know. And she said,"It's A little hand inside a big hand."

And it's crazy that it stuck with me for nearly thirty years now. And every time I hold my baby's hand I think about that and know that, as usual, and as if there was any doubt, my mom was right again.