Thanks to COVID-19, this is a particularly lousy Mothers Day, all told, but still, I want to memorialize the occasion by talking about my Moms.
I have, basically, three mothers. There’s the obvious one, GraceAnne, the woman who hauled me around in her belly for nine months, gave birth to me in April 1969 while in the tail end of her senior year of college, and whom I have continued to call “Mommy” all the way through childhood into what passes for my adulthood.
There’s also my aunt Livia, who is also my godmother, and Helga, whom I referred to once as “Mom-like product,” who became part of the family some time in the late 1970s or early 1980s, and became part of my parents’ household when they got their current house in 1991.
I cannot begin to say how important these three women have been in my life. If there’s anything about me you like, it’s probably something I learned from one, two, or all three of them. Certainly my love of food, my feminism, my compassion, my intellectual curiosity, my love of travel, my love of art, my passion for reading and writing are all things that I can trace to some combination of my three Mommies.
I owe them so much. And while I’m grateful for them every single day of my life, today I want to express that gratitude as publicly as possible, especially since I won’t get to see them at all today, except briefly from a distance of six feet while wearing a mask. Sigh.
Happy Mothers Day, everyone. Especially to all the mothers.
(Picture above taken by my father’s college buddy Bertram S.A. Herbert in Central Park in 1971, and is of my mother, GraceAnne Andreassi DeCandido, holding two-year-old me.)