Looking ahead this week, waiting for Sunday, I thought over and over about my mother. I realized that I don’t remember spilling anything growing up, or being scolded for doing so. There are treasures of memories to keep close. However, this year, memory lane didn’t feel like the trip I needed to take. Here is some of what I have been considering this week as I wait my turn to call my mom.
I don’t particularly care for this holiday. The disliking is more about a sense of inadequacy than anything else. Why do we thank our mothers on one day, buy them flowers on one day? Tell them not to do the dishes on just .one.day? And how is that we run through the first part of the year, get to spring and suddenly realize, ah yes, thank you, mom. I’m as guilty as anyone.
Once you get old enough to notice that Mother’s Day isn’t just a another art class project or greeting card gimmick, you may see that you are eons behind in thanking the woman who raised you.
For my mother.
You survived us. 3 girls. Dad’s wish granted for no boys…or at least that is the story he tells after the 3rd girl came and no more.
Forget the platitudes and greeting card sniffle inducing words. You. Survived. Us. Us in all of our antics–pinching, hair pulling and biting–none of us will forget the biting story. Our shrill girl screaming and hormonal tidal waves. You made it through.
From the child’s point of view, we think we live through all the rules and restrictions you foist upon us. When you get to the other side, you know. You know it is the parent that survives the raising of a child.
There isn’t a greeting card large enough to say thank you like it should be said. Going back and giving a retro active thank you for putting up with my teenage sullen, stubborn, moody self doesn’t really cut it either. I know you needed the thank you then. Probably a few hundred apologies too.
I suppose I could pay you back for the orthodontist, and the neurologist. The money won’t buy back the hours you worked so my teeth would be straight and my head would, well, we had hopes those docs could put it on straight, but well one out of two ain’t bad right? I know what is like to convert hours of your breathing life into medicine to make someone feel better. Hours of sleep to watch a thermometer with hopes of the mercury sliding back towards to the bulb at the bottom.
Mom, I don’t know how you don’t have a hole in your head where your ear is. How many hours of your life have you held a phone to one ear or another to listen to one of your three daughters? Us chewing away at your ear, your time, surely your sanity. But listen you did. Still do. From the back hallway at the store, to the cordless that sometimes beeped and cut out, to the phone with the long cord in your bedroom, you have listened.
You are the best sticky popcorn, cinnamon roll, cozy jammie making mama, or drahma or banana I know.
And if I got it all wrong, you can just say I learned it from the lady in the coral top in this photo (that’s a post for another day). Yes, I know. Photos like this make you so proud to be my mama.
Happy Mother’s Day.
the middle one