Either my son or my mother or both schooled me in a new tactic. Just forget it.
If I held onto all the heartbreak of motherhood – the broken glass, the splintered plaster, the casual lies – he might be gone and I'd be in prison. Motherhood is immersion therapy into the art of forgetting.
And then there are the unheralded glories of caring for a mother with dementia.
First she lost her way driving in her neighborhood. Then she regularly harangued bank clerks for their accounting errors. Now she's settled into folding pastel wash cloths on the memory care unit of a nursing home. She can't remember my name.
She's never been happier.