Whatever...Love Is Love by Maria Bello Page A

I didn’t go to his memorial. I didn’t want to see him as some monument. I wanted to remember him in the quiet moments, the shared moments. I also wouldn’t have known what to say. How could I explain to a crowd of John’s friends and family how deep our relationship had been, all that John had taught me? It was a relationship I just couldn’t explain. I just wanted to remember the secret he shared with me.
    â€œWanna know the secret?” John whispered to me once with his eyes sparkling.
    Of course I did. If anyone knew the secret to it all, it would be John.
    â€œThe secret is,” he continued, “there is no secret. You are lovable just the way you are. We all walk around thinking that there is something wrong with us and that we are bad and unlovable and that everyone knows it, but the truth is there is nothing wrong with us. You are perfect. And they think so as well.”
    Am I perfect? In his eyes I was. Thank God I found him.

6
    AM I A GOOD MOM?
    A re you a good parent or the parent your child needs?
    You do not have to be a parent of a child to answer this question. Your children can be your animals or nieces or nephews. It’s anyone who you feel responsible for. Oprah doesn’t have a child per se, but she is like a mother to many of us in the world.
    Riding in our black, first edition, not-so-comfortable Prius, my then six-year-old son, Jackson, asked me an important question. Right after I just gave a guy who cut me off the finger and yelled out the window, “Fuck you, you fucking asshole!”
    â€œWhy do you curse like that and why did you yell at that man?” my son asked me. I was a little ashamed of my behavior and went silent. He continued, “And why do you smoke and be in movies? You’re not like other moms.” Jackson was angry and defensive when he spoke in his six-year-old way. While trying to come up with a reply that would make me sound like a good mom, a thought leapt into my head.
    â€œOMG. This kid just nailed me. He called me out on my biggest issue— not being the perfect mommy.” And when he persisted with more questions, like “Why don’t you dress like the other moms at soccer?” I knew the answer. I am not a perfect mom. I have failed my son in many ways. But I didn’t want to get into all that with my six-year-old. Did he really need to find out about his mother’s neuroses so soon?
    Within seconds I blurted out the only thing I could think of: “Jackson, I’m not like other mommies. I’m a different kind of mommy.” He looked at me, and without missing a beat said, “Yeah, I get it.” Then he went back to playing his game with a little smile on his face.
    Goddammit! Only six years old, and the little guy had found me out. I’m not like the “other mommies.” Not at all. I am not like the mommy of his friend who has just been away for a week getting breast implants requested by the rich 73-year-old with whom she’s having an affair. Or the mommy of his other friend who gets stoned in the morning to face the day, then makes gluten-free buckwheat pancakes for her kids and their friends after another perfect sleepover. I’m not like the mom of his other friend who is kind, loving, and patient and does absolutely everything and anything for her kids. She doesn’t go out to dinner with her girlfriends because, as her husband says, “You don’t go to dinner because your kids are the most important. Those ‘other’ mommies are not good mommies at all.”
    No, I’m not like other mommies. And thank God, Jack is not like other kids. As screwed up as I sometimes think I am, Jackson just looks at me, now at 13, with a face that says, “You’re crazy, Mom, but pretty cool, too.” And I believe him half the time.
    I recently found a letter I wrote to my dad when I was 17. It helped me understand that no matter what I did, Jackson