Recently someone I know not that well died. It was sad, but about as good as these things can go, he was 96, had just celebrated his 70th wedding anniversary and was surrounded by his family. Pretty good, all things considered. And as I was reading this wonderful gentleman’s obituary I started to think about what we have to show for ourselves at the end of our lives. Over Christmas I had a conversation with my father, we discussed my various step-siblings, who seem bent on repopulating the earth. My dad said that, between all their children, he and his wife have 15 grandchildren, 16 if you count the one on the way. And he said, he doesn’t mean to, but he often puts his fellow AARP members to shame with this number. And I thought, that does sound lovely, but isn’t it strange that somewhere along the way having kids became like getting a high score on Galaga. Isn’t there more to life than how many kids we can create?
Begetting and begetting doesn’t necessarily speak to a great contribution to the world, and I don’t even mean overpopulation. For me, being a parent is not my greatest accomplishment. I have a great kid, don’t get me wrong. And I do a pretty good job raising her, when I’m not saying things at the top of my lungs like “UNACCEPTABLE!” and “WHY WOULD YOU THINK THAT’S OK?” But I don’t think that my daughter is my accomplishment, she is her own. She is her own achievement. Having kids doesn’t make us Great; it makes us lucky or stupid or tired, but not Great. Hopefully, the love we give them is great, maybe that can be part our legacy.
But what about a larger contribution? Any ass-jack practicing the rhythm method can make a baby, I’m not sure that is the yardstick by which we should measure our contributions to this world. And while we might be lucky enough to raise a spiritually enlightened soul who brings peace and joy to the world, I don’t think we can take credit for that. We can take credit for making those souls feel safe and loved, but that’s it (and sadly, or luckily, that’s not always a recipe for a happy fulfilled person). I think that we, as people and as parents, need to push ourselves to put more out into the world. One of my favorite children’s books is Miss Rumphius by Barbara Cooney about an old woman who plants Lupines around her coastal Maine town. Her grandfather told her that we all have to do something to make the world more beautiful (which I read as “magnanimous” and “altruistic”) . Some day, far far down the road, I hope, I want my obituary to say that I gave the world something beautiful (for me it’s writing, but I’m young-ish so maybe there’ll be other things too). My daughter is not a gift I can give, she is not my contribution because she is not my possession. She is my family, my friend (if it’s cool to put your friends in time-outs and make them set the table), and I will encourage to her to find something larger than herself to work toward, to put something beautiful out into the world. In the mean time, while we’re all working on our Work, maybe we can take kids off the list of accomplishments, and put them on the list of blessings.
Sarah Moriarty is a writer, editor and adjunct professor. Sarah’s writing has appeared in such hallowed places as her blog, her mother’s email inbox, the backs of Value Pack envelopes and a waist-high stack of mole skin journals. In addition, Sarah has contributed to F’Dinparkslope.com, WhattoExpect.com and edited fiction for Lost Magazine. An excerpt from Sarah’s novel, The Rusticators, is forthcoming in The Brooklyn Writers Space 2013/2014 anthology, The Reader. A resident of Brooklyn for the last eleven years, Sarah lives with her husband, daughter and a dwindling population of cats. Check out more of Sarah’s work at sarahmoriarty.com.