Mother's Day

Two weeks ago was Mother's Day...probably my least favorite holiday of the year.  I actually hate Mother's Day. Always have.  I never understood what all the fuss was about, why there was so much advertising dedicated to selling flowers, candy, and cards for mothers. From the ripe young age of five, school activities in late April were centered on that one day-- we were told to make Mother's Day cards or coupon books or decorate little flower pots for our moms, so we could present these handmade treasures to a grateful, loving, tearful mom. Hollywood and Hallmark alike portrayed the scene like this: Wearing an apron and a pretty dress, she'd bend down and ooh and ahhh over her darling child's gift, clutching her heart, eyes welling up with tears. Her darling husband would surprise her with a beautiful necklace, her kids would serve her breakfast in bed-- burnt toast and runny eggs on a tray with handpicked flowers in a vase--and she'd love it.

Yeah, not in my world. And no, I am not seeking pity or sympathy or validation. I had a crappy childhood.  My mother is anything but the doting sweet apron-wearing lady I would see on cards and TV and billboards. I have grown up wondering what it is like to have a mom for a friend, to have someone who always has your back no matter what, who will always love you, who will always put you first. As a child, then as a teenager, a young woman, a mother myself, and now a grandmother, I still have no idea what it must be like to look forward to seeing my mom, to trusting my mom with secrets, asking her advice, letting her watch my children. I have watched this mother-daughter relationship in countless homes of friends, and it baffled me. I hated shopping for cards for my mom--it was anathema to think of NOT getting her a card--but trying to find one that was loving but not too loving, sweet but in a neutral way, praising her but only with vague praises, was exhausting. I would pick up card after card after card, reading lie after lie after lie, saying "nope" and putting them back, until I happened on just the right, "generic" card with pretty purple flowers that I wouldn't feel like a hypocrite to sign.

Then I had my own children. I loved them from their conception, and have never stopped. I poured my whole being into them, into keeping them safe, loving them, teaching them. I celebrated my own Mother's Day, year after year, and gladly and lovingly received precious handmade cards and gifts. Then as they grew older, and they realized I was no longer the center of their universe, I was afraid I had not been a good enough mother. That my children hated Mother's Day as well, that they struggled in the card aisle looking for the right card. I would read the cards, handwritten or store-bought, over and over again, looking for a hidden message, something that said they really just bought me the card or gift out of obligation, out of duty. If one of my daughters didn't get me a card, or called their mother-in-law "Mom," or did anything to even hint that I was not the central mother character in their lives, I would be a mess.

Then my children had children. And are celebrating their own Mother's Days now.  This year I received a beautiful handmade photo of my youngest daughter holding her newborn baby, with the words "The best moms get promoted to grandma" written on the side of the photo. And I got a darling, hand-written card from my oldest, written while she was watching her girls play in a mud puddle. And I did not get either of them a card this year, for their Mother's Day. And when I mentioned this to the oldest, she said "Mom, its okay...I am not big on cards at all. I know you are, though. That's why I made you one." And I felt ashamed and elated at the same time

Ashamed for all the times I second-guessed their intentions. Elated that their intentions were innocent and sweet and done out of love

Ashamed for making such a big deal out of a piece of paper. Elated my daughters loved making gifts and cards sparing no ink penning the right words.

Ashamed for wearing my mother's sins on my sleeves, for thinking I had to pay the penalty. Elated I could finally break free of the bondage of guilt I had worn for 60 years.

Ashamed for transferring my neurotic need for validation as a "good mom" to my daughters. Elated to have been blessed with such beautiful, wonderful Godly women who honestly love their mother

Ashamed of how I used to resent my mom, how I used to wish I had a different mom. Elated to fulfill God's purpose in my life with the mother He gave me.