When my father, John Couric, died, The Washington Post published an obituary that would likely have irked him. It mentioned that he served in World War II, was a reporter for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, and had worked in public relations for several trade associations. In the first paragraph, however, they referred to him as Katie Couric's father. In his life, whenever anybody said that to him, he would say, "Actually, she's my daughter."
A few years later, when my mother, Elinor Hene Couric, died, I called the same obituary writer at the Post who had written about my dad and told him that my mom had passed away. He said, "Well, what did she do?" I told him she volunteered for Planned Parenthood, worked in the gift department at Lord & Taylor, joined with some friends to arrange flowers for weddings and special events, and was also a stay-at-home mom who raised four successful and very nice people. After silence on the other end of the phone, he said, "We don't really do obituaries for people like your mom."
His remark made me realize just how undervalued mothers are — and made me think about the choices available to women of my mom's generation. My mom did not have a career outside our home, and for most women like her there were very few options. My mother was the CEO of our home and channeled all her ambition into making sure her four children had more options. She used to tell us, "Let 'em know you're there." She didn't want us to fade into the woodwork. She wanted more for us.
Born and raised in Omaha, Nebraska, my mother had an unmistakable Midwestern sensibility. She was very pragmatic, a no-nonsense kind of woman who had a lot of common sense. But outside our home, she was a bit shy and not exactly brimming with confidence. Though I never met my grandfather, she told me he often lost his patience with her. I don't think her parents propped her up the way she and my dad propped me up. She gave me what she didn't get, and I admire her so much for that. She used to say, "Everyone needs a cheerleader...and I'm yours."
Both of my parents were extremely encouraging, supportive, and took so much pleasure in any of their children's accomplishments, big or small. I feel I was loved so deeply and so unconditionally and have tried to be the same way as a mom. That kind of a solid foundation is so important, because it sets you up to deal with the challenges that life inevitably hands you.
As the fourth child and the baby of the family, I probably got away with more than my sisters and brother. I was the center of attention from an early age. My sisters would ask me to play the piano and do the splits when their dates would come calling, like some kind of trained monkey. I would happily oblige. No wonder I'm a natural performer. At the dinner table, I might say something bawdy and inappropriate, and my mom would laugh. My dad, trying not to laugh, would say, "Elinor, please don't encourage her," and shake his head. I loved making them laugh.
My mom gave me great advice. She told me that children, especially young ones, are satisfied with very little when they ask questions. "Less is more," she'd often tell me. When I asked about periods when she was driving me to my piano lesson, she gave me a very matter-of-fact answer. And that was that. This advice proved invaluable when my first husband, Jay Monahan, was diagnosed with cancer. During the nine months he was sick, our daughter Ellie asked me, "Is Daddy going to die?" I told her that I hoped he wasn't and that the doctors were doing everything they could to make him better. No false promises. The truth, plain and simple. Ellie nodded and went back to playing with her Barbie.
I also inherited my thriftiness from my mom. She grew up during the Great Depression and really appreciated the value of things. (I'm the same way; I hate the idea of overspending or getting ripped off or being taken advantage of.) But she was also very generous, and I think I am as well. Both my parents hated people who were pretentious or ostentatious. I'm like that too. I really don't like people who are showy or full of themselves.
Perhaps most importantly, though, my mom taught me to be present, as cheesy and new-agey as that sounds. As kids, the four of us never doubted that we were her number one priority. We always ate dinner together, and when I was raising my girls, it was really important for us to eat together just as I did growing up.
My mother died eleven years ago. When I think back on the most important thing she taught me, it was to love fiercely. For her, family was everything. That sentiment has been reinforced by the fact that my family has experienced more than our fair share of loss. But to never question how much you are loved is a real gift — something I appreciate more and more as I get older. That may not be worthy of an obituary, but it is worthy of my undying gratitude.
Excerpted with permission from What I Learned From Mom: 27 Celebrated Individuals on How Mother’s Wisdom Shaped Their Lives by Jeffrey D. Dunn and Sherrie Rollins Westin, out now.
