What is it about Mother’s Day that causes so many of us mothers to use this day as Judgment Day instead? Are we really that defective? Or is it that we are so invested, so tireless, and so devoted as mothers, that we can never let up on ourselves, especially not on this day of days?
Perhaps I’m stretching more than usual to say that mothers are like owls. But don’t argue with me on Mother’s Day, okay? Mothers are like owls.
Mothers, like owls, learn to fly quickly. They hover, full of grace and beauty, over their offspring. Like owls, they aren’t perfect. Sometimes they overdo the hovering, and sometimes they don’t see that someone didn’t get their share of the meal. (Owls sometimes lose their youngest offspring in their efforts to keep the oldest alive. Thank goodness we don’t do that. Or at least I don’t think we do.)
Like owls, mothers develop a keen sense of hearing. Mothers feed their children, doing what they have to do to find and provide nourishment; like owls, they look far and wide, maybe going as far as the food bank, welfare square, selling their belongings, or taking a second job, but mothers will see that their children have something to eat. No, we don’t give lemmings or mice, unless we give them as pets. Mothers’ eyesight is keen, and they not only see with their eyes, but their hearts as well. It’s called women’s intuition, and that’s no coincidence. They create a nest where all can gather, eat, sleep, and learn, and nests are all so different. If they can provide a place high and safe, they do. When they can’t, they do the best they can, and make do. In the movie, Legends of the Guardian: The Owls of Ga’Hoole, the mother owl supports and consults with the father. They share their worries and concerns about their offspring. In the movie, two owl brothers fall out of the nest and are kidnapped, and what they have learned and have come to believe or disbelieve, makes a difference in the way they face some incredible challenges. Like owls, mothers try to teach their children right from wrong, and they try to protect them from harm. Sometimes things happen anyway. Some mothers are grieving today because of a child who was kidnapped, abused, fell into addiction, or died.
Twenty years ago my family was faced with unemployment, and our habitual trips to the local yogurt shop in northern California turned into occasional trips to McDonald’s, where the order was limited to hamburgers and cups of water. With my heart aching, I laughed and celebrated the joy of “McDonald’s straws,” loudly and cheerfully exaggerating how wonderful they were as I passed out burgers instead of Happy Meals and Big Macs. Mothers sometimes hide their pain in an effort to help their children survive hard times. That was not suffering, but a life adjustment that came with the loss of their father’s job. We tried to be together and find joy in spite of the changes we were facing.
I read something this morning that both touched and confused me, the advice that on this day mothers should show their children what it means to be a mother. After a few hours of feeling that my age must be affecting my comprehension, the common sense thought came to me: ”If I haven’t shown my children what it means to be a mother by now, what difference will a day make?” Besides, as we all know, having had our own mothers, every child’s perception is so unique, and siblings differ widely from one another as well. Every child is mothered a little differently, depending on their needs. Therefore, every child will see their mother in their own unique way. Some will revere her, and some will condemn her.
On Mother’s Day, I miss my mother who died at the age I am today. I sometimes misjudged my mother, but today I long to talk to her, and I remember how she was always and mostly, a mother. She shopped, like I do, for bargains. She cooked, like I do, in spurts. She liked to dress up in costumes, and be silly, like I do, more than just at Halloween. She was strong and determined, like I am, to get the job done that was laid out before her. She avoided iceberg lettuce, and substituted red leaf lettuce, as I do, didn’t eat pork, as I don’t, and had a sweet tooth, which unfortunately (or fortunately) I do as well. She mothered others beyond her own sphere, the poor, Native Americans, Catholic nuns, and a myriad of friends over the years, who valued her wisdom and advice more than her children ever could.
I’ve been a different kind of mother than mine was, one with a career outside the home. Was it a necessity? I don’t know. It seemed to be at the time, and once the work began, it has never ended. On Mother’s Day this has been a source of pain because only now, years later, after my children are grown and gone, have I realized what I missed. I know it was a choice I made, and that pressures existed beyond my control, but the regrets are stinging. I hurt thinking that my children walked home in the snow and the rain, because I couldn’t pick them up after school. I hurt thinking that my daughter got a car earlier than she should have because she needed to drive herself around, because I couldn’t, and this led to her getting into some trouble that might have been avoided. I hurt now that I realize I got home three hours later than my children did, and missed out on a lot of their lives. I hurt realizing that when I my marriage ended, the “compromise” that came from what was called “mediation” divided me from my sons, who went with their father. That was perhaps the biggest mistake I ever made. I hurt realizing that when I became a single mother, my children were on their own more than I allowed myself to see, and that I overworked in the name of security, placing finances ahead of spending time with them. It saddens me that I hurt them, just because I wasn’t there to help them. In summary, it’s painful to come face to face with the inevitable reality that I am a flawed and fallible human being—and mother.
And yet, what a blessed discovery, that I, being fallible, can therefore understand, have empathy for, and forgive others, including my children, for their miscalculations, missteps, and mistakes. I, being fallible, can give the benefit of the doubt rather than the curse of judgment. I can instead remember my own missteps as a daughter, who didn’t always value and appreciate her mother for the sacrifices she made on my behalf. I can take my own inventory, or as Byron Katie says, “Turn it around.” Instead of thinking what someone else has done, think of what you have done. The idea behind “The Work,” as she calls it, is to see how our distorted thinking gets us into trouble, and how to turn that around. She writes, “Everyone is a mirror image of yourself–your own thinking coming back at you.” Even more aptly, on Mother’s Day, is her statement, “If I had a prayer, it would be this: “God, spare me from the desire for love, approval, or appreciation. Amen.”
On Mother’s Day I find myself in a time warp, caught between some self-critical memories from the past, and the need to forgive myself today for being less-than-perfect, and to credit myself for trying to do the best I can in between. I laughed today hearing about a card that a friend sent to her aging mother. It read: “Good mothers let their children lick the beaters. Great mothers turn off the mixer first.”
Over the past two years I’ve worked with adolescents, who have many times expressed, just as my own children could have, a simple and pure desire to spend more time with their mom and their dad, to connect, and talk, about things that really matter. I’m grateful that there were some of those years, when as a mother I could connect and talk, and I did. Today I am contemplating what I need to do to increase the bonding and communication with my adult children. Today, as every day, I am thinking of them, and wishing them happiness, love, success, and safety. I love love love my children, today and always.
