Why I Hated Mother’s Day
I did not appreciate you, until now
Yesterday, I was in a writing workshop on the topic of motherhood. Several renowned writers attended this rich group of thinkers. We wrote and discussed the controverted and conflicting issues with our own mothers. Additionally, our experience of motherhood or mothering others. We finished with writing a letter to our own mothers, or to those people who mothered us.
I easily wrote with gratitude to my sister. She took care of me from the dog bite when I was in third grade (and dozens of other incidents) to our car accident. That time Mom went on with her vacation plans once she knew I’d get out of the hospital. Much of the time, our mother could not be located or she was out of town. Jennifer was forced to be a mother, even though she was merely 16 months older than I.
I thanked both of my grandmothers who cared for me and who made me feel wanted and important. Grammy taught me how to sew and bake bread. Grandma Tucker was there when Mom went traveling around the world when I was eight years old. Mom was gone for three months.
My step-mother was like a loving big sister, who never held judgment. She listened to me and she still does. I thanked her for loving my father and making him happy.
Finally, the last letter went to my dear mother-in-law. She taught me how to be a mother when I had a newborn baby at age 20. I had never held a tiny baby or changed a diaper. She taught me what a mother’s love could be.
They all were mothers to me.
Then, I painfully wrote what I really wanted to say to my mother, who never wanted to be a mother, nor was she interested in my life.
Dear Mom,
Every year I dreaded Mother’s Day because I could never find an honest card. You were not ANY of those adjectives on the Hallmark cards. That’s the reason you received blank cards from art museum gift shops.
Love, Jane
When I read my sarcastic letter aloud, something about hearing myself say those words, caused a seismic shift to happen within me. Call it God. Yes, on Zoom! Tears rolled down my cheeks as I realized how courageous you were to come out in 1970. It dawned on me how difficult it must have been for you to live the 1950s housewife role. That was never who you were. I felt genuine forgiveness sweep over me. So many wasted years of anger, resentment, and blame I held toward you. I did not know time would be so fleeting and I’d be nearing my end. How I wish I could have told you before you died. But I did not know what it meant when I was 29.
Now I do. It’s taken me half my life to write this.
Thank you for giving me a love of great literature by allowing me to read whatever I wanted and a rich knowledge of music. I remember watching you play your violin in our small town symphony. I still hear the piano notes of Debussy drifting up the stairs at night while falling asleep. I entered college with a such wealth of art history that my Art Appreciation class was like kindergarten. I knew I’d never be the tennis player you were, but I grew to love it, though I detested the endless hours waiting for you to finish your matches. I’m sorry for all those whining years around the chain link fence.
You lived an authentic life, not many people can claim that. You were brave marching in civil rights parades when I was a little girl in the 1960’s. I am proud of you for not being a Hallmark mother; your choices shaped me and I thank you for being my (unconventional) mother.
PS. I will never get over the embarrassment of being in the first Gay Pride Parade in San Diego. But I can laugh about it.
