The Passing Present of Parents
The Passing Present of Parents
Or: Understanding Unconditional Love
Next to God, thy parents. —William Penn
Love your parents well and treat them with tender care. You’ll only know their value when you see their empty chair. —Unknown
Above: The Holy Family—that Gordian Knot of perfect love to which we should all aspire.
The love of a parent is a lot like oxygen: it’s abundant, life-giving, free, flammable, and only noticed when in short supply or gone entirely. We neither deserve it nor can we live without it.
Oscar Wilde had an interesting take on a children’s reaction to this unconditional affection. He wrote, “Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them."
Like a runner during a marathon, the quote starts strongly, quickly fades, and ends weakly; specifically, it lacks the debt of gratitude that all sons and daughters—that is, each and every one of us—owe their parents. After all, without their gift of life, you could neither taste the crisp winter air nor bask in the warm summer heat.
To that effect, Wilde’s words require a slight addendum. They ought read: “Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them. Sometimes they forgive them; inevitably they miss them. Finally, they thank them because, as parents themselves, they understand them.”
The below construction attempts to capture the essence of this subtle progression:
One Year Old: Mom and Dad?
Four Years Old Mom and Dad know everything.
Eight Years Old: Mom and Dad will know!
Eleven Years Old: Maybe Mom and Dad don’t know?
Thirteen Years Old: Mom and Dad have no idea.
Sixteen Years Old: I know that Mom and Dad know nothing.
Eighteen Years Old: What the hell do Mom and Dad know?
Twenty-Two Years Old: I know. Mom and Dad don’t.
Twenty-Five Years Old: Wow, Mom and Dad really do know a thing or two.
Thirty Years Old: Mom and Dad will know.
Forty Years Old: How the hell did Mom and Dad know?
Fifty Years Old: Mom and Dad really knew all along.
Sixty Years Old: Mom and Dad would know. If only I could ask them.
The Office’s Andy Bernard shared one of the more timeless, thought-provoking lines in television history: “I wish there was a way to know you're in the good old days before you've actually left them.”
If you are reading these words, you are alive. If you’re lucky enough that your mother and/or father is still alive, give them a ring, hold them tightly, thank them, tell them how much you love them.
You never know when their favorite couch or chair will sag only with their faint indentation, not their full weight.
There’s a decent chance that the current days and the good old ones are one and the same.
Live accordingly.
Per my about page, White Noise is a work of experimentation. I view it as a sort of thinking aloud, a stress testing of my nascent ideas. Through it, I hope to sharpen my opinions against the whetstone of other people’s feedback, commentary, and input.
If you want to discuss any of the ideas or musings mentioned above or have any books, papers, or links that you think would be interesting to share on a future edition of White Noise, please reach out to me by replying to this email or following me on Twitter X.
With sincere gratitude,
Tom
Great post Tom. Makes me think of Mark Twain's comment - paraphrasing - "when I was 16 my dad was the dumbest man in the world. By the time I was twenty-one, I couldn't believe how much smarter he had gotten.
Lovely piece. Made me think.
Not sure any of us truly appreciate our parents, maybe wish we had done more with them, until they're gone.
My memories of my Mum tend to be of her as an old lady. A kind, caring, funny, wise old lady who lived a simple life and didn't ask for much.
She needed me then, and I was her willing helper, so I spent more time with her. More time than I'd spent with her in years. The balance of power had shifted though. I once depended on her, now she depended on me.
Caring for an elderly person is time consuming. It was a 'labour of love' though, not a burden.
I like to remember that she was once an upright, strong, capable woman, but time erased that version of her. It happens. People grow old and when they leave us, we remember the older, more frail, dependent person. That version of them.
When she died, I missed her presence in my life so much. I was free of my caring duties, but it brought me no joy.
Her unconditional love for me, her encouragement, her wisdom, her laugh, her hugs - no more.
I'd drive Mum into town most Fridays and we'd link arms. She hated the thought of using a stick to aid walking, so she'd put her arm through mine. I remember thinking then how slow our progress was. We'd walk at snail's pace. We'd go to a little cafe for a cup of tea, pop into Marks and Spencer's Food Hall, browse, and then I'd carry her shopping bag back to the car. We'd sit on a bench en route and 'watch the world go by' as she'd say, and have a chat. Pretty much the same outing, every Friday.
I went into town not long after she'd died, and although you think you're all cried out with grief, you never are.
How I missed her arm in mine, how I missed ambling along at that slow pace, and when I came to that bench, there it was, empty.
I sat on it, alone, and cried like a baby.
You never miss the water till the well runs dry, as they say. I'm now a pensioner, and looking back, I wish I'd appreciated my Mum and Dad more when they were younger, more active and capable.
I dread to think how my own, adult children view me. I am still active, have a good and fairly busy life, in that I get out and about, drive, have a partner, friends, go places. They lead busy lives, and their love is from afar, or in WhatsApp messages or fleeting visits. That's okay. That's life. The love is strong. The Mother and child bond is still there.
But we should take time to reflect, and if it's the case, make sure we tell those we love how much we appreciate them, while we have the chance.