“We never know the love of a parent till we become parents ourselves.”
Henry Ward Beecher
Last night on the phone my mom directed me to take care of myself and rest up. She knows the past three years have been well-filled, and often tiring, as my husband and I assisted his mother with post-stroke support. Mom worries that I am not getting enough sleep and that I do too much. Also she knows that eventually we will be close-by helping her in the same way, and she also worries that I’ll work too hard at that.
After she made these comments my mom laughed saying, “Gee, I sound like my mother.” I laughed, too, because I often sound like her when I talk to my daughter who is a successful young adult.
“I’m the parent” experiences seem to repeat themselves in each generation.
I learned this few years ago. I called my mother to share a frustrating experience I had with my daughter. I talked on and on for some time, and my mother listened, occasionally making a comment. Finally I ended by asking, “Tell me Mom, does this ever end?”
My mom, on the other end of the telephone did not miss a beat. “When you stop doing it with me,” she said, “I’ll let you know.”