A Day for My Kids and Me

I know a lot of people who roll their eyes at Mother’s Day.  Disbelievers, they claim it is a false holiday; it is a Hallmark moment fabricated by retail giants to inspire retail excess.  Mother’s Day has always been a very special time for me, however.  It coincided with my becoming a mother, and my children have always embraced the day as a way to give back without tarnishing their coolness.  And since my son’s birthday frequently falls on the very day itself, it has been a particularly special day for us to celebrate our special bond.  This year is different, however.  It will be the first time since 1989, when I brought my two-day-old son home from the hospital, that I will spend Mother’s Day without either of my children.

I spoke to my son yesterday.  He turned twenty-three—an occasion worth marking, but with less and less materialism each year.  I asked him what he remembers about one of my particular favorites among the two-dozen Mother’s Days I have celebrated—1994.  It was May 14^th and his birthday was the Friday before.  This was the first time the calendar provided the same configuration of days as the year he was born.  

Jonathan was barely old enough to begin playing T-ball (a necessary precursor to Little League).  We snuck him onto a team by volunteering Tom as the coach of The Lookouts (as in, when the kids are throwing the ball, you’d better “look out”).  There was a vicious little cadre of southern moms who frowned at me disapprovingly as I arrived at practice in a suit and heels.  Tom would pick up both kids from daycare and then hand-off our baby girl to me so that he could run the practice.  I could not bear to stay for the practices.  Not only was the Hot-lanta heat punishing in pantyhose, the moms would not leave me be.  One by one they approached to suggest that it was “inappropriate,” “unfeminine,” “against God’s will,” “threatening to my marriage” that I would choose something as “selfish” and “unnatural” as a career.  Calling me a “bad mother” to my face, they kept trying to saddle me with cookie and juice box duties more befitting my station.  I would have been happy to provide snacks any time, but because of their nastiness, I insisted that since my husband was coaching the team our family had contributed enough. 

There was one saving grace that made this experience one of the highlights of our lives.  On Mother’s Day, our league played in the pre-game show at the old Fulton County Stadium just before a Braves Game.  Although I had to sit in the nose-bleed levels of the outfield with my baby daughter, I could see Tom come out onto the warning track with his little orange-clad warriors, circling the field and then taking their places in a tiny diamond in center field.  The event was remarkably choreographed, allowing each kid to take one hit in turn before switching to allow the opponents to bat.  If there was a final score, no one ever reported it.  It didn’t matter.  We were all winners that day.

As the kids got older, Mother’s Day took on more pomp and circumstance.  It became a day of fancy brunches where my kids took special pride in getting themselves cleaned and primped.  My son looks so handsome when he puts on a dress shirt and sport jacket, my daughter so pretty in a skirt and heels.  For this one day, there is a special emphasis on manners—a ridiculous show of excess for my benefit only.  My son opens the door to the car, holds out his arm to take me from the car, and holds my chair while I sit.  My daughter tells me I look nice (even if she is mortified by what I am wearing) and remembers to put the napkin in her lap.  I am also well aware of the role she has played behind the scenes to make sure that my husband got everything right.  

There is also a regular homage to the gods of Hallmark.  Finding not only the right card, but also the best card is a source of pride in our clan.  My son’s particular talent is capturing a certain poignancy; my daughter’s is to adorn any store-bought card with enough drawings that it becomes original art.  Their personal touches let me know that they have not taken their mother completely for granted.  In fact, I am always a bit tickled and surprised by how important this day is for them.

My daughter texted me during her finals week with a frowning emoticon when she realized that a trip she had planned would keep her away during Mother's Day this year.  That she was so saddened to miss this day was very touching to me.

As many of us know, being a mother is a thankless job, one that never ends, and given freely and completely without a second thought.  It comes with joy and heartbreak in equal measure.  There is no amount of growth or distance that relieves that connection, nor would I allow it at any price.  Even as I write this, I know that my kids, who are far away on different hemispheres, will reach out to me on this day to love their mother.  I am as confident of this as I am in the air that I breathe.  It will make my day.

Tomorrow's blog:  Seven-Percent Solution to the Summer Blues