Re-reading what I just penned, I also need to say that my father was a decorated WWII Marine who was part of the first Division Guadlcanal. He wanted me street smart and cultured. Mom gave me my love of words, reading and gardening. She and I would pick my sister up at school on Mondays, Weds and Fridays, going directly to the library. She patiently taught me to print my name so I could get my first library card when I was 3. Dad took me to Las Vegas when I was 17 to see Frank Sinatra. I consider my life the Dance of the Ampersand, the marriage of both light AND dark.

My Father. My parents divorced when I was three. Five years later, a first year teacher, with everything to lose, called my Father and reported the obvious signs of abuse she saw. I, of course, never told my Father about my Mother’s abuse, because she told me if I did, she would “lock me away”. My Father took action, in 1967, when Dads didn’t get their kids. He took full custody of me, and raised me, with the help of his Mother and our beloved housekeeper…I never for a minute doubted that I was the most intelligent, funny, gifted child on earth. I was blessed. Each year, he threw me a huge obnoxious Birthday Party…and he always started it by saying “This is the (insert age) anniversary of the best day of my life!” He also instilled a strong work ethic, a love for animals, a love for the land, more than I can say. I lost him when I was thirty five, and I miss him, these twelve years later, as if I lost him yesterday.

Both of my parents — Linda and Al O’Brien — were amazing. I am who I am because of both of their influences. My mother taught me discipline, taste, love of nature, fashion, art, scholarship and to be the best I could be. My father taught me about knowledge, streetwise and otherwise. I owe my love of music and books to him. Without them, I would not be me. I miss them both madly. May they rest in peace…in the knowledge that I will always love and remember them. They both died four years ago —- three months apart.

My mother was a tyrant and my dad soon learned to keep his head down and let her have her way. At times I hated her but she was such a strong influence on my life that I still wonder whether she would approve of whatever it is I’m doing. My dad was a wimp, a very sweet and kind and attentive father, but nevertheless a wimp. My mother always got her own way, and usually by manipulating the emotions of those nearest to her. She rarely raised her voice but I was scared of her and I think my dad was too. We both knew she would kill us if we didn’t obey her. But on the other hand, I also knew if I was in need, she would kill anyone else who treated me badly. Once she got past 80 she mellowed quite a bit and my therapist taught me how not to let her push my buttons. So we had a pretty good relationship for the last 12 years of her life. She was still fairly cantankerous and we had a huge fight on the phone when she was in the hospital for the last time. But when I saw her, she finally said that she thought I had been a good daughter, which was like a wonderful gift to me, after all the years of being told what a failure I was. Her death was very fast and unanticipated and a horrible shock. I had to find a home to put my dad in (he had dementia) and clear the house out and get it sold. It was the worst time of my life. About 4 months later, I had a nervous breakdown. My dad died 3 years later. But it is my mum I still miss despite everything.l

I was born at the right time, to the right parents, and grew up in the perfect state for me—California. My parents are 77 and 80 and both very youthful and with it. Dad and I email back and forth daily, I speak to my mother on the phone most days. Except don’t call at 3PM when Oprah is on. He’s thinking of writing a political blog. She’s very into exercise and nutrition and loves Whole Foods, and just had her eyes done and a tummy tuck. I have infinite respect, love and gratitude for both. The thought of either of them off the planet makes it hard to breathe. To me, my mother is always 30 and looking like Eva Marie Saint in “The Russians are Coming.” She’s very quick with the one word quip. Never worked but ultra competent running a large home with 5 children, animals, always fresh flowers, excellent meals, order, serenity, lovely decor. She’s never flustered, super organized, incredibly self-disciplined. Her penmanship on even a grocery list is perfection. Every checkbook from her very first is balanced. The inside of every purse looks like it’s brand new. She’s a CZ Guest kind of woman. An excellent gardener, her attitude is don’t talk about it just do it. She has terrific common sense. I’ve never heard her raise her voice, swear, slam a door, or say anything against any group of people. We were taught that the very worst word or thought is ‘hate,’ and if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. The last seven years has caused me to verve off that excellent advice. Her heroes were FDR and her father—an opera singer who studied in Europe, and spoke nine languages. He was her best friend and closest companion as an only child. He died tragically and young, she came home from school and opened the telegram delivered to the door. It effected her entire life. She said that at 15 she’d ditch her Catholic school, go into the woods alone, build a fire in the snow and skate round and round on a frozen pond all day because the nuns at school and her mother told her not to think or talk about it, but she couldn’t stop crying. She also had a trained and beautiful voice. She and Dad used to sing “Desert Song” every Thanksgiving, kind of a weird tradition that we all loved. Never in my mother’s life has she been as animated as when talking about my son. She’s been absolutely dotty about him since the day he was born. When he calls her from Europe she sounds like an 18 year old girl relaying what he said. They were best buds until he left for college, always going to the theatre together. When we were kids we had lots of music, books, creative projects, music lessons, sports and limited TV. My parents assumed we were capable and smart. My dad was 6’4”, dark hair, Brooks Brothers suits and dimples. He was a business leader, dog crazy and instilled that in all of us, always took us to do challenging sporty things in nature and enjoyed surprising us. He gave my brothers and I bow and arrow sets and B-B guns when we were very young and we’d shoot targets, taught us to play chess, build forts, we were always building stages and putting on plays, starting neighborhood football games. Mom admires peace, beauty and casual refinement. Dad admires attainment, responsibility and guts. I’m proud of my parents for being decent people with a sense of humor for the human condition, little fazes them. No matter the dumb things we do, they really love us.

My dad Everett died when I was 13. He was big, gentle and very loving. People were drawn to his deep booming laugher and his kindness. I lament that he died before tape and video were in vogue. I would love to have a recording of his voice, his laughter for myself and my children. I miss him every day.

My father was an autocrat, my mother a matriarch, which made for interesting familial dynamics. I cannot get through Act 3 of Richard Wagner’s Die Walküre without weeping copiously, remembering my father’s tyranny and, in the end, ultimate affection. I haven’t answered the question because I’m not sure I know the answer. I learned from both, not just how to, but how not to.

I was dreaming of my mother last night. I miss her still after 15 years. we were battling a lot,she was in Europe and I in the USA , she was old school, her integrity was enormous and I hope I got this message from her. My father decided to join his mistress the same day as our liberation by the Americans. Imagine how my mother must have felt, I was 12 and the joy of the freedom and the pain from his leaving , all at once , has never been resolved with me. He never picked up the job of being a parent after that. I still do not like him.

Mom was always there. She made sure I was safe, got me to piano lesson, dance lessons, all the kid stuff. Now as she gets older I am sad to see her loose so much of what she had. Now I am the one making sure she gets to doctors appointment, the bank, groceries, etc. So happy to do things for her.

My mom died when I was 16, such an obnoxious teenager that in my memories it seems all we did was fight; we never had a chance to come out the other side of my spoiled and rotten behavior. My dad died in 1998; as a businessman whose job required him to travel, he spent a lot of time on the road for the next few years but tried his best to take over the job of raising two teenage girls. After he remarried and moved away, I called him several times a week and visited several times a year. He died before my third & fourth children were born, but doted on his first grandson & granddaughter. I still miss him every day and wish I could call him to chat and ask for advice. Luckily, I have a great sister who is always ready to listen to my tales of woe and provide the same support that dad would if he were still alive. I wish my mom & I had had more time together, and that she were here to tell me how she had survived two children (if she had) as I’m struggling with my four.

Neither. I came from people who had no business having children. A psychic told me 2 years ago that I don’t have parents. I didn’t need her to tell me that. They divorced 25 years ago. My mother never got over it and became a bigger child. I avoid them as much as possible.

I have to say neither as well. My parents were so worried about what others thought they both made our lives miserable. Being part of a big family I was just lost in the crowd.

My parents divorced when I was about 6 and I did not see my Father again until I was 30. My Mother had an undiagnosed mental problem and my memories are of raging, lying, living in dirt and disorder, and being called stupid for expressing ambitions and goals. So I guess my Mother was most important as I tried very hard to avoid being like her.

Mom had more impact on me as a kid — and the bulk of my adult life has been trying to undig myself from the emotional hole she dug for me! Sounds like a familiar pattern here, hmmmm … As I have aged, I realize that I am very much my father’s child; and take great pleasure in that. The poor, stolid guy has stayed married to my mom for 55 years, and is now care-taker for her as she slips into Alzheimer’s. No way would she have done the same for him. My mother is wildly emotional, and Dad’s more an analytical type. What is really scary is how many times, with my own daughters, I find myself about to say something that my mother would have said to me — that absolutely devastated my self-esteem at the time. I am so thankful I am more like my Dad in those instances, I am able to take a breath, and shut my mouth.