Selling Them the World
A Response to Maggie Smith’s Poem Good Bones
The most profound lament I’ve ever heard a child say is, “I never asked to be born.” These words, strung together in a moment of deep pain, will always leave my internal brakes screeching to a halt, microphone dropping, truth bomb detonating … leaving my heart punctured with the shrapnel.
How exactly does a mother respond to such a declaration? Like a dismissive noir detective saying, “Yeah, me neither, kid,” or with a declared quest to channel poet Maggie Smith and do everything she can to “make this place beautiful” for this child? Or something in between?
The kids are right to say it, aren’t they? They live and breathe because, once upon a time, we either: 1) longed for an innocent bundle to cuddle and nurture; 2) did the math and deduced that it was time to do our part in contributing 2.2 children to keep the population stable or; 3) participated in a careless romp in the hay, high on hormones and/or hooch.
As a kid, I had no reason to summon this somber sentence since hardship only came to me secondhand. My parents were not as fortunate. I learned young that my dad’s dad abandoned him when he was three and that my mom grew up wanting as the daughter of a milkman and a stay-at-home mom with two other children to feed.
My dad kept his pain quiet, so it seeped out of him instead in his need for control. But my mom, oh my mom, her handling of hearts taught me to treat everyone in my path like they too carried a pocket full of pain that a little love and a little fun on her part might help alleviate.
There was no Maggie Smith back then to whisper in Mom’s ear that it was on her to “sell” her kids on this world, but she seemed to operate from a deep place of knowing that she wanted to show up with bells on to make things better.
This meant that when I was troubled by substitute teachers mistaking me for a boy with that damn shag haircut she gave me or after sharing a current event with the class where I declared to the mocking masses that the “Cupertino Junior High School gym burned down and they think a guy named Arson did it,” she was there for me. With tight hugs, eager ears and, well, snacks that wound up creating a different problem that I’m still dealing with. But I digress.
Mom was there for my three failed cheerleading tryouts when I froze and ran off the stage, when all the boys I had crushes on liked Molly instead, and when I dressed up like an elf and got bullied on the bus by Megan M, a south pole angry elf if there ever was one. I wouldn’t know how to frame the effect my mom’s love had on me in the aftermath of these moments if it weren’t for the Maya Angelou quote I eventually read: “Whose eyes light up when you walk in the room?” My mom’s, that’s whose.
It wasn’t just when I needed cheering up, either. She made sure my brother and I had birthday parties with literal buried treasure, lemonade stands stocked with penny candy and donuts too, and slumber party fashion shows with flashlights illuminating the backyard runway for us girls. She converted our home into the Hostess House where anyone was welcome for afterschool snacks with cream fillings or glazed crusts. Her craftiness, too, allowed us to shine on all the school theme days with intricate costumes and campaign gimmicks.
She did all of this while carrying her own pocket full of pain from a marriage where she rarely got her own way inside a power dynamic where the litigator always knew best.
As Grammy, her efforts bloomed again. Long days of caring for my teething babies so I could work. Tea parties and shopping trips. Sitting bedside during hospital stays. MC’ing talent shows with megaphones announcing, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, introducing the Moore sisters.” Hours spent hunched on the floor dressing Barbies and Polly Pockets with her girlies. Overnight trips to the beach, complete with souvenirs and sandcastle building.
Once it was my turn to sell people on the world I brought them into, I sandwiched little sticky notes into their lunchboxes, hosted American Idol theme parties, MC’ed a second generation of nightgown fashion shows at slumber parties. I held quiet grudges with anyone who ever hurt them (Truth be told, I still do) and I helped them look forward with hope after they encountered each and every bad boyfriend, unappreciative boss, missed opportunity, or friend who proved herself to be around for a reason or a season instead of a lifetime.
Even though my girls are now grown and gone from the flow of my daily life, I still do what I can to show my support and make their lives a little brighter. I volunteer each week in my oldest daughter’s classroom as she helps little learners grow, always showing up with her favorite coffee order since teachers can’t get out much. For my youngest, an actor, I sub in as a scene partner in her self-tape auditions when a qualified actor friend isn’t available. I send fun money, on occasion, via Venmo for unexpected treats. I answer their calls and texts with an immediacy intended to show them they matter most.
I do my best to emulate my mom because I want my daughters to feel like I did when she was alive to show me the bright spots in a world that can feel pretty damn dark. Though I cannot prevent the moments that make their pockets brim with pain, I’ve learned from the best that a little love and a little fun go a long way in making this place more beautiful for them … and for me.
