It wasn’t easy.

There was the jealousy.

The novel Push by Sapphire was published in 1996, the same year as my first novel, The Deep End of the Ocean. I remember, because there was a Newsweek profile of old first novelists that featured Sapphire and me and I was 40 and she was 52 and she’s still only 55 – which is hard on the other person to begin with.

Plus, there was the “just made a new and swell movie” jealousy, which all authors share although they pretend they don’t want their books made into movies (and some, such as Sue Grafton, really don’t and so they don’t accept the option money). By Hollywood standards, the movie of my novel, which premiered in 1999, might as well be the first time Jack Nicholson had impure thoughts. And the movie of “The Deep End of the Ocean” did not have the tag line – “based on the novel The Deep End of the Ocean by Jacquelyn Mitchard,” repeated every time the film was mentioned.

When I heard this, that this was actually the NAME of the film, I thought, who do you have to know to get that kind of clout?

The answer was, Oprah Winfrey.

And though I sort of “know” Oprah Winfrey, we don’t hang out and trade hairstyling tips and she never invites me to her house in Maui or anywhere else, although I would be very polite and funny if she did. People are always telling me to call her and explain that my recent fortunes have put me on the verge of moving into a doublewide … but that’s not so easily done or feasible as they imagine.

Back to “Precious,” based on the novel Push by Sapphire.

The story of a 16-year-old pregnant for the second time by her own father was difficult to say the least – nay, horrifying. One of the babies has Down syndrome and is called by the distinctly uncharming name “Mongo.” Precious is fat, and frequently abused, physically and in other ways you can’t imagine. Especially since I am now the mother of two daughters who are black, I worry that I cannot be a good mother to them for cultural reasons. (I’m always reading essays entitled “Haitian Adoption: Why Race Matters,” except I guess I would agree to fist-fight with anyone who says race matters more than other things. Still, I worry about robbing these girls of their culture, as surely as I have robbed my Mexican daughters of their culture, as surely as my parents robbed me of my American Indian culture – because life only gives you so much strength. And yet, they say that inter-racial parenting is a problem. All the good things about it (which apparently are few) are entirely encompassed by the second word in the phrase – as in it’s “better than a sharp stick in the eye.” When these articles are published, the writers warn of dire consequences ahead for those parents who blithely – or even miserably, as in my case – ignore the “issues.” However, until last week, my girls didn’t know Beyonce Knowles was black; and I had to explain that her mom or dad was probably white or mixed and, given that they were growing up in a white family, they might fall in love with and marry white guys.

Marta, 5, asked, “Would I get Beyonce hair if I married a white guy?”

You have to sigh.

Well, this is a bit rambling.

Black History Month was quickly upon my girls the second month they entered school. Since they did most of their growing so far in Ethiopia, I had to try to explain why there was even a Black History Month – without getting into the awful bits, which I have to save for later, as the spirit (mine) can handle only so much.

After Merit, just turned 12, went to see a play about Jackie Robinson, she told me, “At first, white people didn’t like him, then they didn’t like him again and finally they did.”

I said, “In America, some white people can be jerks.”

She said, “Well, not in my family.”

All that said, I was doing my video workout in my hotel room in Boston when I decided to watch “Precious,” and at first I was ready for “Stand and Deliver” and I was going to scoff.

And yet, this movie, of which I am still jealous, pulled no punches, even the ones I wanted it to. Though the talk-show personality of Mo’Nique makes me want to set myself on fire, if she had not won an Oscar for her portrayal of the hideous mother of the obese 16-year-old girl who finally learned to read and to write then the Academy should have stopped making the statues.

Not only was the film brilliant, beautifully written, unflinching and somehow, tremulously hopeful, it forced me to think about the things I do as a mother.

In general, I think that most cats are better mothers than I am.

Cats don’t back their kids into corners for steely no-crap lectures related to laundry. Cats don’t demand excellence from their kids they can’t achieve themselves.

You name it and I’ll cop to it.

My kids can tell me, “You’re always gone and you never took me to a baseball game and you have that computer attached to your hip and you only cook good food when you want something and you guilt trip us and you’re neglectful yet over-protective …” and I’ll agree with that. I am not only guilty as charged but actually guilty.

However, there was this one scene in “Precious” about the minimum duty of a mother.

The girl, Precious, was headed for an alternative high school. Given to a rich fantasy life (including picturing herself in a gospel group and giving interviews on the Red Carpet – which, in a twist of irony because the young actor Gabourey Sidibe actually did) the night before she took out a photo album. In it was a picture of a younger, and very kempt version of her mother, styled and smiling.

In her mind, the photo spoke. It said, “You need to get to sleep now. You have such a big day tomorrow. Mommy loves you.”

In that Boston hotel room, I started to cry and I couldn’t stop. I watched the movie for a second time and cried even harder. I continued to do my video workout, for which I should probably also thank Sapphire – because exercise is probably part of why she’s only aged three years since 1996 and I’ve aged 14.

When it comes to my good mothering skills, I may indeed not be much better than a cat, but I am a maestra of the guilt trip and every other head-trip.

And though it was said nobody ever said, every night, to me, “Mommy loves you.” Every night, in person, by phone or by email, I say that very thing to nine people. And they believe it, and I believe it. Which I guess makes it true.

So, long, long story long, I guess it matters. I guess that even kids who seem to wish you’d say, “Here is a hundred dollars. I need you to get yourself some super-violent video games …,” really want to hear “Mommy loves you” instead.

It’s a whole lot better than a sharp stick in the eye.