MOTHER LOVE
I have always lied to my mother. And she to me. How young was
I when I learned her language， to call things by other names? Five，
four--younger? Her denial of whatever she could not tell me， that
her mother could not tell her， and about which society enjoined
us both to keep silent， distorts our relationship still.
Sometimes I try to imagine a little scene that could have helped
us both. In her kind， warm， shy， and self-deprecating way， mother
calls me into the bedroom where she sleeps alone. She is no more
than twenty-five. I am perhaps six. Putting her hands (which her
father told her always to keep hidden because they were \"large
i and unattractive\") on my shoulders， she looks me right through
!
i my steel-rimmed spectacles: \"Nancy， you know I m not really
good at this mothering business，\" she says. \"You re a lovely child，
the fault is not with you. But motherhood doesn t come easily to
me. So when I don t seem like other people s mothers， try to
understand that it isn t because I don t love you. I do. But I m
confused myself. There are some things I know about. 1 11 teach
them to you. The other stuff--sex and all that--well， I just can t
discuss them with you because I m not sure where they fit into
my own life. We ll try to find other people， other women who can
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