Entry #28: HAPPY MOTHERS' DAY

Mothers' Day has always scared the crap out of me.

My mother expected to be worshipped every day, but Mothers' Day was special. It was invented for HER, the world's most perfect mother. She never showed any interest in any other mothers, or the women who raised her. This day was for HER.

I had to do something in honor of Mothers' Day each year, but it could not be anything commercial. A card bought from a store, no matter how tasteful, was utterly beneath my mother. Ditto anything else purchased from a store, no matter how lovely.

One year I printed out a personalized card on my computer and sent it to her via snail mail. I thought it had turned out rather well.

"Happy Mothers' Day!" I shouted dutifully. "Did you get my card?"

"What card?"

"I made you a card! Didn't you get it?"

"Oh... you mean that Thing that came out of the computer?"

She hated anything electronic. She hated the card. She sounded like I had sent her a box of doggie doo.

While I was living at home, Mothers' Day filled me with dread because of the ritualized, terrifying dinner. It was guaranteed that my mother would not go near the kitchen, which was a blessing. But how drunk would she get at the restaurant? How many times would I have to apologize to the waitress? How awful would the meal be? And, most importantly, how many grievances had she been privately polishing over and over until this moment?

When I first got to college, no one mentioned Mothers' Day and it went clear out of my head. I was blissfully ignorant. I was so delighted to be away from home that I totally forgot that I should have a stomach ache that spring. Besides, I had just met Artiste and I was a lot more interested in him.

The phone rang downstairs in my dorm. It was my mother.

Speaking with her, I tried to think of subjects that would not get me into trouble. Mentioning Artiste was out of the question. I had been instructed to work my way through college, so I'd gone out and gotten a part-time job at a pharmacy. I was attending the most expensive college in America - although it was rumored that Sarah Lawrence cost ten dollars more - and I was spending my free time re-stocking condoms. Then I got yelled at for working instead of paying attention to my studies. EVERY situation was a no-win situation. It was best not to talk about much of anything.

I had a remarkably civil conversation with my mother. We talked about the weather, her neighbors, my classes - anything non-controversial. After a few minutes I hung up with great relief and went back to my day.

The phone rang again inside its little booth in the downstairs foyer. It was my mother again.

This time she was hysterical. "I CALLED YOU ON MOTHERS' DAY!"  she sobbed, "AND YOU NEVER SAID A THING!" This went on for a long time.

Guilty as charged. I'd had an entire conversation with her which had turned out to be a trap. She had deliberately ended the conversation without mentioning why she had actually called. That made it possible for her to call me back a second time and ream me out. What a Happy Mothers' Day that was.

The memory was so emblazoned on my amygdala that I never forgot Mothers' Day again. I would practically get seizures thinking about it. Must not forget. Must not forget. Send nasty commercial flowers that will not be appreciated. Send horrible fresh fruit basket that contains the wrong things. Send home-made brownies that will be stuck in the freezer forever. Year after year, must remember hopeless gesture that will not be good enough.

After three decades on this planet, I became a mother myself. I was blessed with two absolutely perfect children, and I thanked my lucky stars every day. Nobody ever tried harder to be a good mom. And nothing, but NOTHING, was (and is) more important to me.

The funny thing was, it never crossed my mind that Mothers' Day now applied to ME. That day was forever terrifying, and forever for my mother. She lived to be over ninety years old, which meant that for sixty years running I had never experienced spring without a stomach ache.

This week my daughter said noncommitally, "Mothers' Day is this weekend. Maybe we can do something."

I am not making this up. I looked at her in surprise and said, "I'm a mom!" What a thought!

I think it's time for me to claim a little piece of Mothers' Day for myself. I even know exactly what I want: a big hug.

To all the other moms, grandmoms, step-moms, adoptive moms, foster moms, gay moms, and other kinds of moms out there, here's a toast to you for doing the most impossible, most exhausting, most gratifying, most important work there is. Looks like someone got around all those condoms I hung up week after week. Congratulations to you all - and a big hug to you, too.