Lottie’s Kids

Families are complicated.

In a recent rare visit with my siblings, my sister aptly named us “Lottie’s Kids.” When we get together, memories of our Mother dominate our conversation.  

As we talk, there are familiar rhythms and vibrations that create the pattern of our being together. From raucous laughter to wide smiles, from quiet nods to abrupt interruptions to tell what “really” happened. 

Some of our funniest anecdotes are those that describe incidents that were not so laughable at the time they happened. It’s only through the many iterations of the tales that they become comical. What once loomed large are now small and distant memories. Yet, they are powerful enough to create a static hum that connects who we are now to who we were as “Lottie’s Kids.”

Rather than an archeological dispassionate exploration of the truth, we hold on to our own recollections of what really happened. Sometimes what we think are memories are not, in fact, our own recollections. Rather they are what we heard others say happened based on their memories. During our reunions, truth is not what’s important. What is important is the telling of the tales from the recollections of “Lottie’s Kids.”

Notwithstanding the possible therapeutic benefits of reuniting and sharing with family, for a brief moment when we’re together recalling our growing up, I feel as if we’re doing something disrespectful to our Mother’s memory because we describe her behavior without knowing the context or motivations from her point of view. I wonder if my siblings have similar feelings.

By the end of our time together, I know that our Mother would join us in this comic-fest. No one would sit near her, however, because she had this habit of hitting the person near her when she was in the throes of laughter. She took laughing seriously!  

Despite our regrets and wishes that our lives would have been more of what we think is “normal,” we know that our Mother was a singular woman with many more gifts than foibles. Her eccentricities might have been her way of shielding her heart that had been broken too often by too many people.

I’m grateful to be one of “Lottie’s Kids.”