It’s My Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day is not my day.

Yes, I have children and I am a mother. But that seems besides the point. This is MY mother’s day. It is about my very own mother who raised me the best way she could figure out at the time. And it’s also about my halted, muddled attempts at realizing this and thanking her enough for any of it.

Peanut butter and banana sandwiches after school while watching Wheel of Fortune.

Kneading bread with heaps of brown sugar, flour, warm smells, rising comfort.

Flashcards in our green Plymouth station wagon, pulling a trailer of camping gear across country.

Homework at the dining room table while I cried and whined and dramatized how miserable math was. She sat there until it was done.

Scrawled crayon cards with pictures of princesses and unicorns and rainbows. Happy Mother’s Day Mommy.

A song once. Made up lyrics rhymed to the tune of “Free to Be, You and Me”. Maybe my last public declaration exclaiming how much I loved my mom.

Dropped at the bank to open a checking account without her help. A bus schedule and directions to the doctor’s office. Put on airplanes without an adult. Told to walk home. Call them yourself. I needed to learn. I did.

Angry and telling her so, all the time. Awkward attempts at affection. Her confused reasoning. Still angry, resigned, she’s my mother.

Errands to run, lists to follow, you go down this aisle, I’ll go down that one. Hold my bag. Go get a cart. Run over to that store, ask them for this, yes they will know what that is. Ignoring my looks, my arms folded, my whispers of “whatever”. We have to get all of this done today.

Cape Cod summers with my grandparents. She worked all summer. And we played at the beach.

Didn’t understand. Wouldn’t let me do anything. Never listened. The only person in the world with a mother like this. She waited, ignored, got on with it.

Car keys, an enormous old Ford Taurus, an empty beach parking lot, reading a book in a beach chair while I practiced over and over and over. You’ll get it, you’ll be fine.

Picked out cards in CVS. Which one made sense for her? My awkward attempts at thank yous. Not sure she heard them. Not sure I was genuine enough.

Consistent inconsistencies, eye-rolling frustrations, wishing for something else. And then I had children.

Her stories of parenting. Her constant advice. Breastfeeding never hurt for her, it must be something I was doing wrong. They will figure it out. Be patient. Don’t be silly, you’re a very good mother. Kiss them for me.

A call. “Happy Mother’s day, Mom.” “Thank you. And to you too. How are the boys?” A call was enough somehow.

And then she was gone.

And now it’s Mother’s Day. But it’s not my day. It’s my mother’s day. So I am unsure of how to honor her without a call to make or sending scribbled thank yous on a CVS card.

So I suppose I’ll do what I usually do every day since she died: remember, wonder, grieve, apologize, wish, consider. But really just remember.

It is my mother’s day after all.