A Day of Mourning and Celebration
Happy Mother’s Day
An incredible Irish soul of many roles, she is but a toddler on this New York winter day, bundled up in a velveteen coat atop a tiny tricycle, her doll almost as large as her. I forget that she, too, was once a child ready to explore the world, trusting her parents would watch over and protect her.
Daughter, Mother, Grandmother, Great-Grandmother—she is/was all that and the reason we come together to celebrate this Mother’s Day.
My mother lives on in my heart and in the sweet laughter of her great-grandchildren. Raised by Irish immigrants in the South Bronx, her life was not so sweet and innocent as in the photo. No. Her innocence faded as the years progressed.
Sadly, my mother’s life was one of struggle.
She struggled with the outbursts of an alcoholic father; she struggled with a husband who gambled away savings and paychecks; she struggled working nine to five and raising two children while she did so. She struggled with an impossible ideal that a woman could have it all.
Life was not easy for my working mother, who tried hard to break down patriarchal ceilings. She fought hard to break through so her daughter, granddaughters, and great-granddaughters could have more opportunities than she did.
