Well, here it is again–Mother’s Day. This day has been set aside since 1908 (https://www.history.com/topics/holidays/mothers-day) if you care to read the history.
Yesterday I was overwhelmed by the array of spring flowers and chocolates displayed at our local grocery store. It looked like the overly done floral displays, many times done by people with no knowledge of gardening, on Hallmark movie sets. The intense pretext that the simplest way to say Happy Mother’s Day is to bring the obligatory floral bouquet and be done with it, was patently obvious. The store is a veritable flower garden waiting for customers to spend inflated multiples of dollars because it’s the easiest way to express thanks to the mom who might rather have a visit or hear a thank you.
This year I am living in a senior living facility–happily, by the way. Unlike my grandmother who cared for both her mother and her husband’s mother in her home, my dear husband and I decided against putting that burden of responsibility on our kids. Our children are busy people. We respect that. We call our career women victims of “the sandwich generation,” those trying their best to raise their own children, succeed in careers, and care for their elderly parents, grandparents, aunts, or others who need their attention as well.
What I noticed yesterday, as I enjoyed a ladies’ brunch here, how the conversation went. One dear friend here told how her youngest son sent her two dozen roses, her other son caught a cheap flight from New York, rented a car in Orlando, and was coming to take her out to supper. She’s the same one whose daughters did not invite her for Easter, even though they live nearby. Another said, “my children might appreciate me after I’m dead, but I never hear from them,” or “I’m remembering my mother more than my children are remembering me.” or “Don’t get me started! My son hasn’t talked with me for years!”
I’m mentoring an writing class here called “You Are Unique.” We are writing about our growing up experiences, our families, our life experiences, and, inevitably, for those who are moms, their children. They often write about how hectic life was, but they long for those days. It’s hard to sit in a small room, surrounded by children’s photographs, and say, “those were the good old days,” when for many, those were difficult years. We’re writing our life stories to leave legacies for our children, our grandchildren, and if we’re lucky, our great grandchildren. We sold seventy-eight copies of our first book. Many of those will go to grown children who may never take the time to read them. We wrote our own obituaries because our children may not know the details of where we were born, our life’s journeys, or details about our contributions to the world.
We probably raised our kids, unless we had a horrible upbringing, the way we were raised, although lifestyles change generationally. Psychiatrists’ offices have full schedules because of perceived or very real experiences caused by bad parenting or memories of rejection, abuse, fostering or adoption issues, or misunderstandings which affected our lives. There are grown children who will never say thank you to their mothers. There are protesters on our TV screens whose parents may be grieving and wondering where they went wrong. Let’s be fair, there may be some who celebrate their liberated children who are emboldened by causes. Perhaps they, or their forebearers were Suffragettes or peace protesters during the Vietnam era, or the hippies who rejected culture’s flawed structure.
We could be conflicted because we were fostered, as one dear friend I’ve met here, buy placement in fifteen foster homes before she was five years old, and now, in her nineties , has found remnants of her biological family. Or we could have strained relationships with our children or step-parents, or siblings. Life is hard sometimes. Mother’s Day may be a day some remember the difficulties of homes where the Department of Child and Family Services had to intervene. Yes, there are social services which must sometimes remove children from dangerous situations. We are thankful for the caring social workers and those who must take over the role of parent when drugs, finances, anger, and abuse are present. As a teacher, I saw firsthand the problems with homelessness, with inadequate supervision, and with youngsters making their own way. I’ve heard the single mom stories. They are heartbreaking.
For many, today will not be a happy day. For those longing to become mothers, my heart breaks. For those who have lost loved children, some through miscarriage, some with stillborn little ones they’ve looked forward to holding and nurturing, some who have aborted fetuses because they didn’t think ahead to the joys of motherhoods, some whose children have rejected them, some whose financial difficulties have caused undue hardship, some who through misunderstandings and quarrels have lost the respect of their grown children, and those whose children have died from disease, drug abuse, accidents, or suicide, who mourn their children’s loss on a daily basis–this may be a torturous day. To the single women who have longed for marriage, longed to feel the quickening in pregnancy, longed to hold their children close to their breasts but have been denied that privilege, I feel your pain. Personally, I waited eleven long years to have my children and perhaps appreciated them more than most moms. To those on TV who moralize, wishing others Happy Mother’s Day, yet have put career goals first and rejected the experience of motherhood, they perhaps will one day live with the regret of “what might have been.”
However, to those whose children say, “I couldn’t have become who I am without my wonderful mother who sacrificed so that I could become who I am,” I say “Bravo!” To those who call their parents on the phone just to say hello, or message them saying, “I was just remembering today when we. . . ” You make motherhood seem valuable. When you help your dad up from the chair and point out rough patches in the pavement, or when you offer to drive because driving at night becomes difficult or dangerous for those of us in our eighties, then, we feel blessed.
And, yes, I’ll enjoy the flowers, the dinner out, and the hugs, if I get them, today.
We celebrate the good moments when we find them. We who are graduating children this month find joy in knowing that our children have met their goals or the goals we had for them. When our grandchildren can’t wait to come up to us and give a hug, or when they make, as one mom proudly showed off yesterday, a bouquet of flowers and dill pickles in the arrangement just because they know mom loves both–it brings tears to our eyes. And when someone like me writes memoirs called Rocking Chair Porch–Summers with Grandma” or “Her Name was Bess
or “Bless You Bouquets” I hope those in heaven know I love you and remember you and say thank you for showing me how to mother my own precious Paul and Nancy and to grandmother my adoring and adorable grandchildren Kaley Marie and Emily Grace It is, for me, a Happy Mother’s Day.
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