The Greatest Gift

Two friends who know me well forwarded the same link to me last night -- a New York Times piece about "MSNBC moms." The once-upon-a-time soccer moms whose empty nests are now filled with the steady drumbeat of left leaning cable news. One admitted to having her daily five o'clock glass of wine with Ari Melber (though he did not know -- until now, I suppose -- that he has been her cocktail hour companion). Many of the women interviewed live dangerously close to red folks -- some sleep in the same bed with one -- and their highly intelligent and articulate like minded friends on MSNBC make them feel less alone. I live in a pretty blue bubble, but I get it. I fall asleep with the television on, wake up periodically to the endless loop of the evening line-up. Sometimes it's repetitive, but sometimes I pick up a tidbit I slept through the first time around. My dog waits patiently for Mika and Joe to appear in the morning. That's when it's time for me to start really paying attention, and time for him to pee.

The article was liberating and well timed. My youngest daughter had been home for three days, and I found myself sneaking around, changing the channel on each television to get a quick fix. I lowered the volume in my bedroom each night, but she busted me every time. Eli and I would wake confused -- no Joe and Mika to herald the beginning of our morning routine. It was disorienting. I will still sneak around -- when my older daughter calls me in the morning I automatically hit the mute button so she won't know how deranged I am. But I feel validated now, like I've been told I actually have a syndrome.

This isn't about my MSNBC addiction, though, or even about my overwhelming feeling that I live in a country I don't recognize. It's about motherhood and daughterhood and grandmotherhood, and how we move through the stages of life, together and separately. My youngest daughter is starting a new chapter, and for now, she my mother's temporary roommate in Brooklyn. In the apartment where I grew up. Both her older siblings have done a stint in New York, spending more time with my mother for longer stretches than I have in years. My relief at being able to watch MSNBC with reckless abandon was matched only, as I watched my twenty-two year old toddle off with her oversized suitcases, by abject panic. My mother is judgmental and intrusive, and my daughter is judgmental and occasionally morose. I am afraid of both of them, sometimes. I had forgotten, I suppose, that my mother told me the day my first child was born that there is no describing the joy of being a grandparent. I had forgotten, I suppose, that being a grandchild is nothing to sneeze at either.

My mother and my daughter both sent me happy texts. "I'm home," my daughter said. "I adore her," said my mother. Here I am again, the necessary but irrelevant link, the forgotten one who brought them together. The exhausted quasi-soccer mom turned solitary MSNBC mom who wonders why she exists but is gratified to learn it's now socially acceptable to consider Nicole and Chris and Rachel and Lawrence to be her actual friends, even to uncork some wine while we chat.

To my daughter and my mother, thank you for letting me know you have settled in amicably together. And, to my daughter and my mother, you're welcome, as I am the one who made this all possible. Enjoy each other. It's time for mimosas with the Rev.