Lorrie’s Blog

It’s amazing to me that a woman of my age can still be made to feel guilty by the woman who brought me into the world.

Growing up, I always thought everyone’s mom was like my mom, and I certainly didn’t appreciate the gift that I had in her raising me. It was only when I became an adult and found out that other people had a much different experience with their mothers growing up that I began to appreciate her. And then when my kids were born, my admiration for how she raised me and my sisters (4 of us within 5 years of each other) grew immeasurably.

From my mother and her mother, I inherited my over-the-top optimism, my gift for and love of writing, and my inherent need to apologize for things that are completely out of my control. (Like when someone tells me they had a bad day, out of my mouth pops, “I’m sorry.” As if I’m responsible for their bad karma or something.) My mom is one of the most compassionate and generous people I know. And she has a knack for making me feel guilty.

For years I’ve had this kind of long-running joke with my parents that I am their favorite. I’ll leave them voice mail messages and just say, “Hi, it’s your favorite daughter. Please call me back.” And they always do, proving that I am indeed their favorite. (Some could argue that they just recognized my voice, although my sisters and I all sound alike and others could say that they called all of the other sisters before finally getting to me, but this is where the over-the-top optimism comes in.)

Any way, recently I have been admittedly neglectful of either e-mailing or calling my parents. So this week, I receive the following poem from my mom. In spite of the fact that it made me feel guilty, it was so clever and charming that I couldn’t help but respond. I’m sure you’ll agree.

Dear Lorrie, Daughter o’ mine,
Are you sick or are you fine?
Do you still go to work or just stay home?
Do you smile and sing or groan and moan?

Marjorie Turner Kirkpatrick (who used to be your mom)