January 15, 1973
Dear Diary,
Tonight after school I had a big fit and ranted to mommy for hours about how much I hate my life and how nothing’s ever going to get better. And the song that kept going through my head was “Cry Baby Cry,” from the White Album. “Cry baby cry, make your mother sigh / she’s old enough to know better.” That’s one of of my favorites from that album (which, by at the way, would be a KILLER single LP, rather than a pretty good double LP). Anyway, Mommy managed to calm me down. SHE ended up feeling a lot worse than I did, actually. But it’s okay. She’s old enough to know better.
Dear Little Tommy,
I’m STILL ranting to mommy. Tonight I went to her house, climbed on top of her on the couch, rested my head on her chest, and cried till her sweatshirt was soaked. I was 13 years old, just like you, all over again. “Mommy, are you proud of me? Did I do anything special with my life.” And I let her go on and on, without my usual protestations of “who cares”, “that’s ancient history,” “my career ended so early,” “the truly accomplished and talented people don’t give a shit about who many countries I’ve visited and how many interesting people I’ve met in my corporate life.” No, I just let her sing my praises as she soothed me — stroked my hair and my cheek and gently rubbed my back. And, as I covered her body with mine, I stared across the room to the fireplace mantle — at the Tommie Shrine. All those beautiful baby pictures in their original metal frames. All of those pictures that will be thrown in the garbage after she dies. And I howled and bawled and soaked her shirt even more. (Hey, if you’re looking for a TRULY maudlin Beatles lyric to use with Mommy next time, you might want to consider “died and was buried along with her name,” from “Eleanor Rigby.”) In closing, little Tommie, heed my advice: love your mother while you can, as much as you can. You’ll never have another person quite like her, whose soul will never drown, no matter how much sad, salty water you pour into it.