In my experience, as people get older, either they start looking after their parents or their parents keep looking after them. My parents kept looking after me. When they visited, they fussed over me: Did I need a sweater? Was I hungry? I’m generally the one who looks after everyone else, so it was very sweet and rather amusing to have the roles reversed.
We were close. After Bill became Governor of Arkansas in 1979, my parents moved to Little Rock. Dad was retired, and they were ready for a new chapter to unfold, preferably as near to their beloved baby granddaughter as possible.
Dad died just a few months after Bill became President. I begged Mom to come live with us in the White House, but it wasn’t surprising that she said no thank you. She was too independent for that. She did come visit us for weeks at a time, staying in a bedroom on the third floor. She even traveled a few times with Bill, Chelsea, and me on foreign trips.
After I became a Senator and we left the White House, Mom moved close by, to an apartment building in Northwest Washington, D.C. She loved walking around town; going to museums and the zoo (they’re free in Washington!); having dinner with Bill and me a few nights a week; and seeing a lot of my brother Tony, who lives in Virginia just outside Washington with his wife, Megan, and my nephews Zach and Simon and niece Fiona.
A few years later, I asked again, and she finally agreed to come live with Bill and me, because it was getting too hard for her to live on her own. Mom had some heart problems, which meant that unpacking groceries or folding laundry could leave her breathless. She who was always in ceaseless motion now moved gingerly, and she worried about injuring herself.
I was glad that Mom agreed to live with us without my having to fight her on it, but I was ready to fight her on it. Her independence was important, but so were her health and safety. When she still lived alone, there were times I’d be at work in the Senate and realize that I hadn’t heard from her all day and panic a little. Had she fallen? Was she okay? At our house, there were always people around. If Mom moved in, we wouldn’t have to worry as much anymore.
Except it wasn’t as easy as that. We discovered something many parents and children find out late in life: that the balance between them is different once the child is grown and the parent is aging. Mom didn’t want to be mothered; she still wanted to mother. I didn’t want to encroach on her independence and dignity—the thought horrified me—but I also wanted to be straightforward with her about what I thought she could and couldn’t do anymore. No more walking down the basement steps alone; they were too steep, she could fall. She did it anyway. She bristled at any restriction and largely ignored my suggestions. Any time I felt impatient, I reminded myself that I would be just as stubborn as she was.
There was one major fact that kept the balance steady between us: I still needed my mother. I needed her shoulder to lean on; I needed her wisdom and advice. I used to come home from a long day in the Senate—or, in 2007 and 2008, from a day on the campaign trail—and slide in next to her at our kitchen table and let all my frustrations and worries tumble out. Mostly, she just listened. When she gave advice, it always came down to the same basic idea: you know the right thing to do. Do what’s right.
Mom lived with us for five years, and I treasured every day. The whole family did. Our home was a busy place thanks to her. Grandson Zach came by after school to see her all the time. Tony and Megan brought Fiona and Simon over frequently or took Mom back to their home for the weekend. She relished her time with them. She talked to my brother Hugh, who lived in Florida, every single day. Same with Chelsea—not a day went by without a phone call, and every week, Chelsea and Marc came to see her. She enchanted all our friends. Several of Chelsea’s male friends adopted Mom as their honorary grandmother and would stop in to check on her and stay for dinner, debating the finer points of philosophy or The Sopranos. She was good company: quick-witted and well read. The day she died at ninety-two, she was halfway through The Mind’s Eye by Oliver Sacks.
We were so lucky to have her with us for so long. Many of my friends had lost their mothers by then, but here was mine, greeting me every morning and night with a sweet smile and a pat on the hand. I never missed a chance to tell her that I loved her. On a lot of nights, I made the choice to put aside my briefing books for an hour or two so we could watch something on TV (she adored Dancing with the Stars) or have a late dinner together. Briefing books could wait. This time with Mom was precious. I would have given anything to have that kind of time with my dad; I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass me by.
I was grateful for her long, full life, grateful for every moment we shared, grateful that I had the means to care for her the way I did, and grateful for the deep love she shared with Chelsea and the wise advice she gave her. I can’t count the number of people across the country I’ve met who would love nothing more than to have their aging parents living comfortably at home with them. But they can’t afford it, or they don’t have the room. We had the room. We could afford it. I feel extraordinarily lucky for that. We didn’t leave anything unsaid between us. I feel lucky for that, too.
After Mom died, even though I was Secretary of State, I felt just like a little girl again, missing my mother.
Isn’t it funny how that happens.
A British publication once offered a prize for the best definition of a friend. Among the thousands of answers received were: “One who multiplies joys, divides grief, and whose honesty is inviolable.” And “One who understands our silence.” The winning definition read: “A friend is the one who comes in when the whole world has gone out.”
Every single one of these experiences—the joys and struggles of marriage, motherhood, and daughterhood—I have shared with my friends.
My friends are everything to me. Some have been by my side since I was five; I’m still friends with Ernie, who walked with me to kindergarten the first day. They’ve seen me at my worst, and I’ve seen them at theirs. We’ve been through it alclass="underline" divorces, remarriages, births of children, deaths of parents and spouses. Some of my closest friends have passed away, and I miss them every single day, which makes me value the friends who are still with me even more. We’ve sat at each other’s hospital bedsides. We’ve danced at our children’s weddings. We’ve drunk good wine and eaten good food, gossiped and hiked and read books together. We have, in short, been an indivisible team.
Some of these friends are men, and some are women. And I want to take a moment to celebrate my male friends, who have been in my corner over the years come hell or high water. There are some out there who say women and men can’t really be friends. I can’t understand that. I don’t know what I’d do without the men who challenge me, encourage me, hold me to account, and make me laugh so hard I can’t breathe.
But my girlfriends… my girlfriends are something else entirely.
In my experience, there’s a special strength at the heart of friendships between women. We get real with each other. We talk about raw and painful things. We admit to each other insecurities and fears that we sometimes don’t admit even to ourselves.
Here’s an example: I loved motherhood passionately. But there were days when it felt—there’s no other way to say this—very, very boring. I would read the same children’s book twenty times in a row and feel myself become duller. My colleagues were doing interesting, challenging work, and I was at home singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” for the millionth time. I wondered if I was a monster for feeling this way, so I asked my friends. Their verdict: nope, just a normal mom.