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.
