Posts tagged mother daughter
The Silver Strand
The Silver Strand

I am a mother and a daughter. But I was not mothered—at least not in any traditional sense. Five months after they met, my parents were married: She’d just turned twenty-one; he was six months younger. They bought a house with red stairs, a half-block from the beach in Santa Monica. Five years later, in 1970, they had me. But in March 1973 my mother divorced my father, and a few months later, she called to tell him that she was leaving me at her parents’ house in Berkeley. The next day, my maternal grandmother met my father at the Oakland airport with me in her arms. My mother cut off all communication with her family and friends.

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MotherhoodJulia Nusbaummotherhood, mother daughter, Children, GriefComment
Awaking Alone
Awaking Alone

The eldest and only daughter, I had always liked being alone with a book in my hands, and my bedroom door closed. If the chaos of my three younger brothers seeped into my imagination at work, I’d lock the door. My mother called it my retreat from the noise but often would disrupt it herself with chores or babysitting for me since I was the right hand she turned to when she was overwhelmed. Growing up, I heard my mother yell my name from afar more than I heard it any other way.

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AloneJulia Nusbaumgrief, mother daughter, ChildhoodComment
Am I Still Your Mother
Am I Still Your Mother

When my daughter was born, I was worried that I wouldn’t be the one she would call out for in the middle of the night.

Josh brings her warm, tear-soaked body into our king-sized bed – all 29 pounds of my two- and-a-half-year-old. The bed is already fully occupied. Me, Josh and my almost four-year-old son, Miles, sprawled out as if he was attempting to make snow angels in his sleep. But I still welcome Lyla with outstretched arms.

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MotherhoodJulia Nusbaummotherhood, mothers, cancer, breast cancer, creative nonfiction, women writers, Feminist, mother daughter, Personal Essay Comments