One of the topics that is given the least credit, or the one that is paid the least attention, is the one that refers to what one learns from one’s creatures. I think that, since I became a mother, I have learned as much from no one as from my daughter and my son. I have learned a lot, a lot, with my friends, with my readings, with collective thinking, of course, but above all I have learned from them. It is about an intimate learning, about myself. They are a mirror that is both brutal and tender, often without a filter; others, with an unknown compassionfar from the Christian idea on that point in which I was educated.
Our breakfasts are starting moments in which each person’s world is put back in its place, if that place exists, and each one, each one, appears with their fears, their desires, their frustrations and their thoughts as if were new. At home we have breakfast in the kitchen. We are lucky enough to have a large space with a wooden table and vegetable basket. We are lucky in many other things, but this one gives us unexpected conversations, conversations that come from the last frayed remnants of the night, or the projection of what is to come. My oldest son no longer lives with us. My daughter, yes. About to turn 16, his world has nothing to do with the one I had at his age. I was a child in comparison, a fool. Adolescent girls now know many more things, they have had to choose, think, and question so many issues that did not occur to me until I was much older.already outside the family home. My daughter has thought with me and with the women who accompany me. He has gotten fed up with me on countless occasions, with my intensity, my struggles, my absences and my omnipresence. I often think that living with me must not be easy. Then, yes, there are the loves, the kisses, the hugs lying down, the constant attention.
But, above all, there is that way he has of looking at the world, so particular, one step further. It happened yesterday Saturday, for example. Looking through the newspapers first thing in the morning, a headline caught my attention. The Country and I read it out loud: Why, if possible, don’t women give their child their last name first? I was about to start firing off my typical breakfast questions, without even reading the article, when my daughter interrupted me. “Do you know what’s wrong, Mom?” he asked without waiting for an answer. “That there are, in reality, women’s surnames.” I looked at her curiously, thinking she was going to talk about the gender of surnames, of words specifically. “I could take your last name, of course, but it would be a man’s last name, your father.”he reasoned.
I am always amazed by this ability to give one more twist to what already seemed questioned. It is a way of opposing me, of arguing with me, but moving forward, without going back. A way to make amends in a positive way that I appreciate and applaud. Yesterday, sitting at the breakfast table, I was about to answer something about the genealogies of feminism and similar nonsense, but I stayed silent and dedicated a silent prayer to her: In the name of the mother, and the daughter, and the spirit of all those who came before us. Amen.
#mother #daughter
