Growing Up Without a Mother

I can still see her hands scattering flour in a circular motion to form a “well” on the kitchen counter. I see her add water, olive oil and yeast to the hollow center, then throw in a pinch of salt before whisking the ingredients together with a fork. I see her reach for some more flour, which she sprinkles all over the big, sticky mess. Then she begins to knead. She applies powerful motions with her soft yet strong hands, rolling the dough away from her, then pulling it back, taking one side of the mound, then stretching it and folding it over the other. She does this with the other side, and repeats these motions over and over until the dough starts to take the shape of a ball.

That’s the vivid image I still have of my mother making pizza dough so many years ago. She had no recipe books, yet she knew exactly how much of each ingredient was needed and had a natural confidence that everything would turn out delicious. She had learned to make pizza by watching her older sisters. She didn’t learn from her mother, whom she lost when she was only 2. And I lost her when I was 13.

Yes, I’m a motherless daughter. And now that I’m the proud parent of two teenage boys here in Northern Italy, there are certain aspects of motherhood that I am winging. I am a motherless mother.

As a small child growing up in the Chicago suburb of Park Ridge, Illinois, I collected so many beautiful memories of my mother up until her death. As she courageously battled her illness, there was no way I could have truly prepared myself for how vulnerable I would feel after she was gone, despite my father’s loving presence. Passing through all the stages of grief—from anger and denial to eventual acceptance—I realized that I would always feel a void in my life. That I would always miss her. But that, nonetheless, things were going to be OK.

People often ask me if it’s difficult talking about my mother. I admit that it wasn’t always easy to discuss my loss, because of the void I felt without her caresses, her smiles, her tender looks and reassuring ways (and sometimes not so reassuring ways). But I was never too upset to talk about her. On the contrary, I found it comforting. When I talked about my mother, I was keeping her memory alive in other people’s minds. And I was connecting her to me in a way that I was no longer able to do physically. I was saying to the world: My mother is a part of me and she always will be.

The author with her mother in the 1970s.

I’m grateful for every memory I have of her. Just watching her strong, delicate and wise hands was always enlightening—whether she was cooking, knitting, or gesticulating while talking to clients in the office where she and my father managed their import-export party favor business that she had started from scratch. I still have sweaters, dresses, blankets, tablecloths and doilies that she made with those remarkable hands. Watching her knit or embroider was not only educational, but also musical: She would hold the big yarn needles in her hands and under her arms and then very elegantly move her fingers to introduce the yarn from one needle to the other, and each time the needles tapped they would make a little ticking sound. The most amazing thing is that my mother did this while she was watching a movie on television and chatting with us. These days, I credit her for nurturing my ability to multitask—she set such an enthusiastic example of how to get things done.

The loss has helped me understand that it’s up to each one of us to make a difference in our lives—in a sense, we become our own mothers.

Now that I’m a mother, I’m aware of how painful it must have been for her to know what I would lose with her death: the unique and unconditional gift of love that only a mother can give. It  hurts to think how much she must have suffered when she discovered that she wouldn’t live to continue guiding and protecting her daughters through this complicated world in which empathy and compassion are sometimes forgotten or considered weaknesses. But even those last few months of her life—those excruciatingly trying and anguishing months—were made more tolerable by the discreetness and dignity with which she faced her treatments and, ultimately, her death.

I consider myself a lucky person in many ways, but I know I’ve missed out by losing her at such a young age. I realize that my kids have also missed out not having her as a grandmother. The consolation is that the loss has helped me understand that it’s up to each one of us to make a difference in our lives—in a sense, we become our own mothers. The love, strength and determination my mother modeled for me and my sister fueled me not only for my first 13 years, but for the rest of my life. Driven by the same passion and courage that my mother had exhibited, I had the strength to overcome many difficult moments throughout the years. At those times I always felt her presence.

I also feel her during the good times. Whenever I make pizza from scratch with my sons, I’m reminded of her and the message about motherhood she passed down to me: that raising children is hard work, but with perseverance it will reap incredibly satisfying results. So even though she will never meet her grandchildren or watch me parent them, she has, in effect, taught me how to be a good mother to them.

With Mother’s Day coming up on May 11, of course I will feel melancholy knowing that I won’t be able to spend the day with her. But I will experience the joy of spending it with my boys, and remembering the special woman that would have been so proud to see me all grown up and raising my own family. I will also try, as I always do on this holiday, to reach out to the important mothers in my life—whether they’re friends or aunts or neighbors—and let them know how grateful I am to have them in my life and in my community.

To all the moms out there, have a lovely and peaceful Mother’s Day, and please tell us how you are celebrating with the ones you love this year.