Proud of You

My parents were not effusive people.

When #1 Son was little, I gave my mother a copy of “Grandmother Remembers,” a sort of reverse baby book in which grandparents (there is a grandfather version, too) can write about their lives and their children’s lives in a book for their grandchildren. My mother put it aside, not feeling inspired to work on it, and it sat on a shelf for several years. But in the fall of 1992, after a cancer recurrence, and with a knowledge of her own impending death that had not come from doctors or been discussed with anyone else in the family, she began to work on that book. She didn’t like the way some of the pages looked, so she went out and bought a fresh copy to be the “final” edition, working through some of the writing as a draft in the original copy.

On the page that describes “My Child’s Teenage Years,” one item had been left blank. It asked her to fill in the following:
“I was very proud that ______________________.”

She was ill, and we all knew it, by the time I caught up with the work she was doing on the book, and I had spent a weekend helping her sort through old photographs as she tried to choose just the right ones for the book.

That’s when I saw the blank page. It hurt to see it, because I feared she had never felt that way about me. She certainly had never indicated pride in anything I had done. I grew up feeling my brother’s prowess in sports was valued and my interest in music and drama was not. I have to say Mother was always right there to sew a costume, but she never expressed any particular enthusiasm about the plays or the concerts or my participation in them.

Somehow we entered a conversation about the blank page. I think I said, “I notice you didn’t have trouble answering the one about household duties (“Household duties were nil, except you would help occasionally.“); wasn’t there anything I did that made you feel proud of me?”

And my mother said, “I never even thought of saying I was proud of you, because I thought saying that might give you a swelled head. But I was always amazed that you could get up in front of people and sing and act. I could never do that.”


She was protecting me from thinking too much of myself, in her mind, by never giving me any affirmation at all.

After she died, I opened the book and found what she had written about me.

“I was very proud that (Songbird) could sing beautifully as a child and wrote a play her senior year in high school that won an award.

Daddy was not much more expressive in his commentary. He prodded me along the way when he thought I wasn’t fulfilling my potential. (I gave him lots of opportunities.) He was absolutely, rock-solidly present when there was trouble. When I was on the verge of washing out of college after breaking up with High School Boyfriend, I figured he would never let me go off to England for the College of Knowledge in Virginia’s Summer Program at Cambridge. I guess I thought I deserved some sort of punishment, and I expected the Wrath of Khan when he saw my grades.

I’m sure he wasn’t pleased. Lord knows, I wouldn’t be. But he put me on that plane at Dulles, because he believed getting away and having a fresh start at figuring out who I was would be the best way to spend that summer of 1981.

Many years later, after my mother had died, Daddy came to spend Thanksgiving with us. I had just started seminary. The whole weekend was full of conversation about how much I loved going to school now, and although I didn’t have many grades yet, it looked like I was going to do well.

When I took him to the airport, we said goodbye on the sidewalk as he got his bag out of the car. I stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and as we pulled apart he said gruffly, “I’m proud of you.”

14 thoughts on “Proud of You”

  1. Once again you strike quite a nerve!
    I never, ever heard words of affirmation growing up. My brother was Sports King. Some how the lead in the school play three years in a row never registered quite the same on the radar of my family. When I got two rather prestigious scholarships, the kind that only a few students at my rather large university get, I heard nothing.
    The first time my father ever told me that he was proud was at my ordination two years ago.
    Some day I will blog about him and his early life and why I understand his way of relating to me.

  2. I have the same Grandmother Remembers book with a similar story. My mother-in-law bought and finished it for our daughters back in 1987 when she was first diagnosed with a cancerous brain tumor. She died 6 months later. It’s a great treasure for the girls because they were so young when she died.

  3. The Princess is sitting here beside me on the couch, reading my mother’s beautiful cursive, expressing amazement that they didn’t have TV when she was a little girl. We’ve just been looking up pictures of the Hindenburg. My grandfather was the Marine Commandant at Lakehurst, in charge on the ground both before and after the disaster. A lot of family history…

  4. Oh! Oh… such a sweet post. Poignant. The words we need to hear from our parents are so simple, yet so powerful.

  5. This post strikes a chord for me, too, with my grandparents, who we lived with throughout my elementary school years. I don’t think either of them ever said a single word of encouragment or affection to me either, but I guess I think they loved me? I’ve been thinking about that question some recently.
    This is a beautiful post.

  6. You made me cry. I had to think for a minute about exactly why, because my parents are at least a little bit expressive. I think that maybe it is because there is often a “but” attached to things my mother says. “You did a great job with xyz, but . . .” I think she has the intention of both praising and helping, but somehow it makes me feel like I can’t quite measure up.
    You know you have written well, Songbird, when you strike such a deep chord with so many folks.

  7. Sitting here crying good tears. How come we never outgrow the need for our parents approval? My daddy was always very verbal in his praise. My mom, who suffered verbal and mental abuse as a child, found it hard to say the words. Recently, I did something with Bebo and she says out of the blue *Oh Mindy, you are such a good mother….so much better than I ever was.* and I felt as though I had finally done something right.
    Loved this songbird, thank you for allowing us to know.

  8. This makes me wonder and think about myself and my own children. What a sad and lovely post. Your writing makes me smile and feel sad at the same time. That is saying something!

  9. Hugs
    You know, your friends are VERY proud of you….
    I was fortunate that both my parents were ready and willing to tell me that I was the apple of their eye in every way, and I think/hope I manage the same for my 3. But, peversely, because they WERE so good at it, I still feel a little neglected once in a while when friends/family are less forthcoming! I guess we’re just all screwed up in our own particular way.
    Thank you for writing xx

  10. Along those same lines, someone once told me the goal was to raise kids that are only neurotic instead of psychotic. 😉

  11. Beautiful post, as always. I wonder, given that so many of us had the same experience growing up, if it was part of that generation’s consciousness not to over-praise the children — which frequently translated into no praise. I probably overdo the praise a bit with my own girls, but I don’t ever want them to doubt that their parents love and admire them.

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