Jenerations

When I started this blog, and named it "Jenerations", I was thinking, as you might infer from the logo, of being a mother, and of being a daughter; of being sandwiched between the generation of my children and that of my parents. Particularly, I was thinking of the female side of things, of being my mother's daughter, of being my daughter's mother. And also of being myself caught between childhood and old age.
I found out Thursday night that my Mom has been diagnosed with a serious, rare, and potentially fatal autoimmune disease. I would name it, but she, at 60, is internet savvy and in doing a search to find out what the future holds for her, would likely stumble upon my blog. It doesn't look good for her, or for all of us who love her. It is a progressive disease, and the treatment seems to cause more discomfort than the disease. She is scared and depressed. I hate thinking of her being scared. I hate thinking of her crying. I think of all the childhood tears of mine she dried, of all the monsters in the closet she chased away, and I am here helpless against this thing that is paining her.
I also think, morbidly perhaps, of all I don't know about her, of all the many talents of hers I have yet to acquire. There always seemed to be time to learn.
Last night, my son had trouble sleeping, and so between 3 and 4 a.m. I could be found holding him in the rocking chair in his room. It's actually a good time to think, 3 a.m. The house is quiet save the creaking of the rocking chair, and even if I wanted to get up and fold a load of laundry, call a friend I haven't spoken to in a while, or channel surf, my job is to hold the baby, to quietly rock and quietly think. I wondered what my Mom was doing at that moment. Sleeping, I hoped. But more likely, awake and fretting in the darkness of her room, wondering about her future. I closed my eyes, and as sleep started to overcome me, saw the baby in my arms not as my son but as my mother, and I rocked her, rocked her, rocked her.