There was an exhibit in Philly of Mary Cassatt's work. It called to me, but not loudly enough to commit. Then an opportunity opened up to babysit our granddaughter, who lives nearby. We decided to make a day of it, taking her to the museum, and then coming back to her home for the afternoon. 

 

Olly is the daughter of artists. Which is why she knows the difference between a Monet and a Cezanne. She brought a book that included samples of a dozen painters, and compared it to the works in front of her. I think the guide she spoke with was impressed. 

 

For my part, I was transported. Every Christmas, my kids would buy me a Cassatt calendar, and those cherubic children hung at eye level. The soft images were of women who looked as tired as I felt, yet were as enamored of their children as I was. I memorized their bodies, as I stood with a baby on my hip and a wisp of hair in my face. Being face to face with these masterpieces, long after the exhaustion has faded, felt healing. I was that mother. For quite some time. 

 

It was surprising to see how many redheads made it into the collection. My brood includes three. 

 

There is not a glut of visual proof of my parenting career. Back then, you had to remember to bring a camera and pay for prints. That was enough of an obstacle by itself, but piled on top was the truth that mothering is not photogenic. Even if the kids' faces were clean, and their clothes not rumpled, someone was usually grumpy, and that isn't even addressing how I looked most of the time. 

 

But seeing the families Cassatt brought to life in pastel and paint, helped me believe that I am part of a legacy.