For ‘motherless mothers,’ parenting heals

When Hope Edelman finished writing “Motherless Daughters,” she thought she had said all she could about the long-term effects of early mother loss. But when she became a parent, she found herself revisiting her loss in ways she had never anticipated. In “Motherless Mothers,” Edelman, the mother of two young girls, explores how the loss of a mother to death or abandonment can affect the ways women raise their own children. Here's an excerpt:

Chapter One
Motherhood and Mourning
The Power to Heal
It's 7:40 A.M., and the house is cranked up to full volume. We've got twenty minutes till Maya and Uzi have to leave for the bus stop, then another half hour before I drive Eden down to preschool. Between now and then, I've got a snack bag and a lunchbox to prepare, a backpack to fill, breakfast dishes to rinse, two kids and one adult to dress, and two heads of hair to brush. Three, if you include mine, but sometimes that one gets skipped.

“Mom!” Maya shouts from upstairs. “Where are my pink high-tops?”

“In the basket by the front door! Bring a hair clip when you come down!”

Uzi walks down the stairs, rubbing his freshly shaved chin. He stops in front of Eden's chair and kisses her on the top of her head.

“Twenty minutes,” I tell him.

NBC VIDEO Motherless women learn how to be mothers April 4: The "Today" show's Natalie Morales talks with Hope Edelman, author of "Motherless Mothers," Bevin Tierney, and Jackie Mandel about losing their mothers at a young age. Today Relationship

“You need help with that?” He nods toward the array of bread and turkey breast slices and condiments spread across the kitchen counter. I consider the offer. If he makes Eden's lunch, I can brew a cup of tea for myself. Otherwise, I won't bother. But I'm the one who knows exactly how to cut the crust off Eden's bread, and how many slices of turkey to use. Those are the details mothers know. From first through eleventh grade, my mother made my sandwich every morning. That's what mothers do.

“I'll do it,” I say.

“Have you seen my wallet?” Uzi asks.

“It's probably still in your pants from yesterday.”

Maya catapults into the kitchen, pink high-top sneakers on her feet. “Mom!” she says. “Where's my hair clip with the gold bow on it?”

“On the counter in your bathroom, where you left it last night.”

Homework. Snack bag. Backpack. The gold barrette, a zip-up sweatshirt, a good-bye kiss for Uzi and they're out the door. I lift Eden out of her chair and shift her to my right hip.

“Made it,” I say.

“Made it,” she says.

“Whew,” I say.

“Whoo,” she says.

When I went to school in a New York suburb, the bus picked me up at 8:05 A.M. Every morning, when I walked out the door at 8:04, I stopped on the front step and stuck my head back inside for a final good-bye. It was a little ritual I had.

“Mom!” I'd shout. “Good-bye!”

“Have a good day!” she'd call back from inside.

If she told me to have a good day, I had a good day. If she didn't, my day turned out bad. I'm still not quite sure how that worked, but it was true.

Now I'm the mother left in the sudden vacuum of silence when a child leaves for school. How can that be, when I'm still the daughter stuck in the good-bye?

Eden and I stand quietly in the living room and listen to the soft ticking of the kitchen clock. It's not over yet.

We hear the explosion of noise before we see her. The front door bursts open and Maya hurls herself into the room, a four-foot cyclone of brown curls and pink sneakers and Helly Kitty backpack.

“Mom!” she gasps, making an urgent beeline for us. “I forgot hug and kiss.”

I lean down so she can grab my neck. We kiss on the mouth, and she plants one on Eden's forehead. “Bye,” she says, hurrying back out the door.

“Have a great day!” I call after her.

“Bye, Maya!” Eden shouts.

“I will!” Maya yells from the front path.

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