A Mother Of A Day

I write about some aspect of this every May, but it's really unavoidable. It's what is on my mind, and it inevitably leaks out into the blog like nose juice in allergy season. Mother's Day.

Those of you who have mothers probably do something to commemorate the day, either out of sincere devotion or guilt-induced obligation. Those of you who are mothers probably have some level of expectation. I, however, am totally outside the societal loop.

My personal maternal history and my natural "let's not make a fuss" social tendencies leave me unsettled and confused. In 1984, the holiday was on May 13, and I have a good reason to remember the date. It was my mom's last Mother's Day, and my first. I didn't get to see her that day. She was in the hospital in Pittsburgh awaiting coronary artery bypass surgery, and I was at home in my apartment in Moundsville, WV, with my six-week-old son. I had bought her a bottle of Oscar de la Renta perfume, which she never would have bought for herself, and planned to give it to her when I visited her in the hospital later in the week.

Her surgery was the next day, and she did not survive. And so ended my interest in Mother's Day, despite the fact that I was now a mother myself.

For several years, I made a point to send cards to my sister and my Aunt Helen, because they did a good job of filling the maternal gap. It was tough trying to learn how to be a mother without my own mom helping me through it, but Linda and Aunt Helen made it easier. My long distance phone bills back then were astounding.

Now that The Boy (my one and only contribution as a mother) is grown, I never know what to do. With Christmas, sometimes it's as much about the fun of giving and showing that you care about someone. It's also about getting stuff. I assume Mother's Day has some of the same elements. I'm not concerned about being "recognized," but what if The Boy sees some value in observing the day?

We are not "visitors." Either of us leaving our own personal comfort zones (our houses) makes us squidgy, so arriving on my doorstep with flowers and an invitation to brunch... not happening. We would both be highly uncomfortable. Proof positive, as if we needed any, that he's my son.

I've developed a nearly debilitating allergy to the phone. I'm not a chatter. 99.9% of my not-in-person communication takes place via my trusty laptop. I'm a writer, not a talker. Plus, the boy mumbles. But the whole "did you call your mother on Mother's Day" and "did your son call you on Mother's Day" pressure is present, if ridiculous.

Don't be mistaken. I like stuff. At the top of my list for any and all gift-giving occasions is one of Cody's rings (or necklaces). These cannot, however, be ordered online, which is a shame, because the person (husband, son, friend, or family member) who finally delivers this holy grail of gifts will instantly achieve legendary status.

I wonder if the local tattoo shop offers gift certificates.

When gifts are required, we're a family that tends to go the gift card route. As I've mentioned, I do have that pesky Amazon addiction. But the point is that I don't really care if any Mother's Day observation takes place at all. Unless he feels strongly about it. Which he probably doesn't. But someone is going to imply to both of us that we should.

The other issue this year is that it is my daughter-in-law's first Mother's Day since losing her mom. I remember how much I needed to transfer all that Mother's Day energy onto my aunt and sister, though that was probably intensified by the fact that I also had a 1-year-old of my own at the time. So, again... totally unsure what is the "thing to do."

Tom has stopped trying to figure out what to send his mom, which is fortunate. That woman doesn't need any more "stuff." Instead, he's started sending her flowers, trying to find a more jaw-dropping, eye-popping arrangement every year. This seems to be working for both of them. She is definitely a talker, though, so he is also obligated to do the lengthy Mother's Day phone call. I don't get involved. Even after almost thirty years, his mom and I still lack the whole mother-daughter connection. It's not that we dislike each other or don't get along (provided that our interaction is brief and infrequent). We just don't "get" each other.

The dogs occasionally give me a mother's day card and/or gift, which is probably appropriate. I'm pretty sure I'm a better dog-mom than I was a people-mom. I've definitely had more experience with canine children.

How does one navigate the landmine-filled cultural maze of Mother's Day, when you might or might not really care about the whole thing, when it carries a lot of conflicting emotional baggage, and when you're not sure at what point it's about you, and when it's actually about someone else? My tendency is to ignore the whole thing. That usually works. But it might be selfish.

In the fourteen years we've lived in Minnesota, Mother's Day has been about flowers, but not the "in a vase from your kid or husband or dogs" kind. That's usually about when it is meteorologically safe to buy your petunias and other weather-sensitive annuals and try to pretend that the previous eight months of winter were all just a bad dream. This year, more confusion. Mother's Day is falling early in the month. We've just had a few freakishly warm weeks, but now it's cool again. Invest hard-earned money in hopeful - but ultimately doomed - springy beauty? Or wait, and let this Sunday pass in a hangover haze? Well, there will probably be hangover haze either way, but one option involves me sweating out Jack Daniel's residue while planting petunias, and one does not.

What to do, what to do? I'm leaning toward hibernation and denial.

Ironically, the first unofficial Mother's Day ceremony was in my native state, West Virginia. Anna Jarvis held a ceremony in Grafton, WV, in 1907 to honor her late mother.

Thanks, Anna, I'm sure you meant well.