What I Really Want for Mother's Day...

I don’t want to be negative or anything, but for Mother’s Day I want to not celebrate Mother’s Day. Don’t get me wrong, I will open the homemade gifts from school and my husband got a nice gift for his mother. I might even write a kind note to my own mom thanking her for telling me she has no expectations for this “Hallmark holiday.” But if you really want to know what I want on a day that I am told is about celebrating me, please note that living a regular Sunday is enough. In fact it is better than Mother’s Day.

When Zola was four, on Mother’s Day she brought me breakfast in bed--a delicious Clif bar on a polka-dot melamine plate. Philip and Ramona believe that breakfast in bed is good for no one, so they suggested she go with this quick, crumb-free, no-need-to-serve-warm option. At eight, Zola recalls this memory with frustration, “they made me.”

I loved extra minutes in bed and the Clif bar (she knew my favorite flavor) and the coffee that came with it and especially Zola’s persistence in the face of those haters. But I am determined to break the cycle. How did the pre-schooler Zola know that breakfast in bed was a thing? Why didn’t they oblige her and throw a few pancakes or even a frozen waffle or hard-boiled egg with toast on a real plate? Why does it still bother her that it wasn’t a grander affair? Who put us in this impossible scenario anyway?

If every other day I am working hard to live with integrity, mindfully triaging what’s important and what’s not, why should Mother’s Day be about meeting a crazy cultural presumption I don’t believe in? I declare from now on in our family there will be no suffering or conflict over unrealistic expectations imposed by others. On Mother’s Day or any other day.

Of course, I get caught up in the madness. Earlier this week I was so proud, downright satisfied,  because I ordered two framed photos of our kids for each of their grandmothers. This was six days before I am usually doomed to failure. On Thursday, when I finally managed to pick up the gifts, I found the photo shop printer made my sweet children and the room they were in yellow. Dull yellow, definitely not a flattering or $25-each tone. Definitely not good enough for the most important holiday in May. So I didn’t buy them. It was back to business as usual, a combination of panic and frustration, as I became ome more and more willing to spend whatever it took not to disappoint.

Sometimes, Mother’s Day also takes me to Martyrville, a place where I begin to believe I suffer more than anyone in my family, my extended family, my block, my neighborhood, and the whole state of Oregon. Because of this, I deserve. I deserve a day alone, a clean garage, lots of chocolate, morning cocktails, and to never cook or clean again. Even after myself. And when all of these things don’t happen, I am disappointed, deflated, and bitter.

I declare from now on I will not distort my own reality. And during the years where martyrdom may be close to my reality, I will not fall prey to the notion that it can be fixed in a day. With a gift. And pampering. Or brunch.

Philip asked me if I wanted to go on a hike to see the wildflowers for Mother’s Day. I told him that all sounded lovely, but I did not want to do it for Mother’s Day. I just want to do it tomorrow, on a regular Sunday in May.

You Know You’re a Salem Girl When...

I moved home to Salem, Oregon the week of my forty-third birthday. I spent my entire adult life thinking of myself as an original kind of female. With my crossbody purse and clunky-yet-comfortable shoes and distaste for umbrellas, I thought I stood out. In New Orleans I only knew a handful of women who considered moisturizer and tinted chapstick to be a sufficient makeup regime.

Here’s how I like to see myself: I am the woman who can be ready to go faster than her husband. With me, what you see is what you get. The bags under my eyes are not hidden under concealer and I’ve never found a white hair I didn’t embrace. I am up for anything and adaptable to most situations. Camping in the rain? Use a tarp and a fly. No time for a shower? That’s what ponytails and (if I can find it) dry shampoo are for. I’m not beholden to today’s expectations or yesterday’s traditions. I am comfortable blazing my own trail.

Moving home has shown me that Salem made me that way I am. I am one of the herd and this herd is a beautiful pack. If you are raising a female in Salem, read on.

The Salem girl is always ready to go, up for anything. This explains her penchant for fleece and the fact she is unconcerned with rumpled hair. She can change her own flat tire and paint her own house. She drinks beer because it tastes better than lower carb alcohol. If you call her at four on a summer afternoon, she’ll join you for a swim at the Little North Fork by five. She knows how to make her own fun, because she has to. Swinging after dark at a city park becomes an adventure with the Salem girl.

There is no guise with the Salem girl. The West is the place for pioneers, folks who choose the open space over cities established for a couple centuries. And Salem is the place for the pioneers who didn’t get caught up in the cool of California or more expensive and trendy cities in the #pnw with an excess of cool coffee shops. The Salem girl’s lack of eyeliner shows she’s not afraid of herself. She doesn't need to dress up reality or fit in. She also needs to be able to rub her itchy eyes—there’s a lot of pollen in the air. In other places I lived, women must play a part. Disguising yourself is routine. No need here.

When I was growing up, I was one of the least outdoorsy girls from one of the least outdoorsy families I knew. For the twenty-five years I lived elsewhere, the fact I owned and could pitch a tent and knew how to dribble and shoot a basketball (I didn’t even make the JV team) made me a specimen of capability, an homage to how competent a woman can be. I once got a data entry job in Manhattan because they were most impressed that my resume listed forklift driver as a previous job. This facility with the outdoors and large machinery is part of growing up here. It develops women who aren’t afraid to get wet or dirty or use a drill. We’ve fallen while skiing and on a damp hike and that time we tried a rock climbing wall and we know how to bounce back up. We don’t mind the mud, because it washes off.

Finally, female Salem-anders are not as burdened by an attachment to old things, traditional attitudes towards gender roles, as other American women. When the Missouri farmers showed up in Oregon, they had to get stuff done. Husbands and wives and sons and daughters worked together because they had to cut down the forest, steal the land from the native people, sow some seeds, and raise some cattle for cheddar cheese dairy cooperatives. This terrain did not allow the Salem woman of one hundred years ago to sit back and let someone else lead. Women in Oregon earned the right to vote in 1912, eight years ahead of Nineteenth Amendment. We don’t wait for things to get done; we do them.

When I moved to New York City, it gave me permission to embrace my aggressive instincts. When I was in graduate school in Boston, I welcomed the chance to examine and over intellectualize everything. My life in New Orleans allowed me to cultivate my creative and wild side. Being home has allowed me to be me, a proud Salem girl who now gets to nurture three more little ladies into Salem women.