Writers, unmarred by A.I, are magic.
They have a surgical ability to slice in on life’s delights and agonies so finely you either want to beam or sob in a dark place. Or both.
This morning, I finished a book by Pulitzer Prize winner, Michael Cunningham. As I read the final pages of, By Nightfall, 21 words leapt out at me, unexpected, sneaky and quietly cruel – hiding a bitter truth.
“We build palaces so that younger people can break them up, pillage the wine cellars and pee off the tapestry-draped balconies…”
For me, Cunningham’s words stab at the core of what it means to mother. To parent without expectation, enjoying, suffering the thrills and spills. Since, to love your child unconditionally is to climb blindly onto a rollercoaster ride of vertiginous joy and sour disappointment a million times a day.
Your adoration for the life you helped create is in perpetual ‘bounce-back’ mode. You band-aid your sorrows, then reconcile ‘em, stand up, hug and love again.
Beyond the toothless grins and candy-scented land of kids say the darndest things! lies a wild terrain of hormones, identity crises and evolving brains. And there’s no GPS on earth that will help you navigate this wild west.
Parenting is not for the fainthearted. It is a love like no other, capable of devouring your intellect, logic and peace. And we wouldn’t have it any other way? Hm.
Is this when martyrdom leaks into motherhood? Answers on the back of your ticket to ride.
© Phyllis Foundis 2025