When my kids were little, it was very important for me to be the best mom. Not the best of all the other moms, but the best mom I could be. I read parenting books. We made pilgrimages to the Red Balloon Bookstore and the Children’s Museum. I made chore charts, and schedules, and potty charts. I made meal plans, and after-school snacks. We went camping and sledding and hiking. And we sang in the car on the way to them all. This was my full-time, less-than-minumum-wage job and I was going to be the best. I was a crazy lunatic Supermom.
And every Mother’s Day, with the guilt of motherhood itself on my shoulders, my grandest wish was to be left alone. Spending that day with the family was like spending Christmas at the office. Without cookies.
Tradition dictated that we go to church and stop at the greenhouse on the way home. It was torturous. The kids were hungry, loud, and plucking buds off all the plants. I saw all the pretty things we couldn’t afford. Someone always left in tears — usually me. One year we had the car in reverse before we noticed an employee holding our second-youngest by the hand outside on the sidewalk. I felt like the worst mom in the world. Then we’d go home where I’d cook, clean, wipe butts and open cards that said I was Queen for a Day.
Eventually the kids grew up, got jobs and made their own schedules. They went camping with friends, sang their own songs, and cooked their own meals. Parenting grown-ups requires a whole different set of skills, like holding back tears of joy or unsolicited advice. Mostly it’s just easier. My daily tasks are self-centered. The days are quieter. The only butt I wipe is my own. TMI?
Mother’s Days are different, too. I’m sitting with my feet up, a lazy dog on either side. My tummy is full — a disgusting mix of processed fried carbs accompanied by a hot cup of coffee — a breakfast Bubba retrieved at my request. The sun glows in a warm spring sky. The hammock and a good book beckon. Some of the “kids” will be here later and we’ll slap something on the grill and crack open a cold one. It’s the Mother’s Day I always dreamed of.
The gifts are better too. We won’t be picking them out together in chaos at a greenhouse. No, once the kids are grown the gifts are simpler and more profound.
The other day I text-congratulated one of my children on her last day of college. Her response was, “I couldn’t have done it without you.” It’s a reply most parents receive at some point with a hug and a thank you card. But there was more packed into that text than ever could have been said by Hallmark.
The tale is hers to tell, and I won’t divulge it here. There were some rocky years there, with many lessons learned by all involved. Some leave me angry like a mama bear, some are painful to recall. But I believed in her. I went out on a limb knowing it was about as far as I was willing or able to go. I stuck by her when other people who loved her had given up most if not all hope.
So this Mother’s Day I have something to show for the financial, emotional, and social sacrifices I’ve given through the years. Being a mother is knowing how much you have to give, how much each of them needs, and when to hold back. It’s about letting them live their life, make their own mistakes, and find their own solutions. It’s about knowing what they’re made of, and letting them prove it to you.
I have immeasurable pride in all my kids, but there’s a bond that happens when you fight in the trenches next to someone; when you save their life and then watch them make something of it. It’s a gift that you just can’t buy in a store and wrap up in a bow.
And for that, I’ll be Queen for a Day. In my hammock. In my frickin’ pajamas if I so choose. Now where did I put my scepter?
Peace . . .