Lately I’ve been reminded of how there are things we don’t ask our parents about.
Either because it just never occurs to us, or because we’re not sure if we want to know the answers.
In my case, there were many things.
Now that it’s too late, I sometimes wonder if I would want to have the chance to ask those questions, or if I’m actually better satisfied with the mystique my mom so successfully created around her life pre-me.
Having me at 39 in the 80’s, she painted a vague picture of a fulfilling life—of the 60’s and the 70’s, the NYC-slumming student nurse days dealing with lunatics at Bellevue, dancing at Studio 54, and traveling with her best friends.
[Her affair with my dad, and my scandalous birth—39 year old woman having babies out of wedlock was no where near as badass in the eighties as it is now—is a whole other minefield.]
But on the other hand, I’m guessing the glamour was slightly embellished. (I’ve got to get my penchant for exaggeration from somewhere.)
And I think I might just prefer it that way.