It always takes me by surprise when Mother’s Day rolls around and I feel melancholy. I love being a Mom, but as a daughter, I feel sad.
I want my Mom back.
I want her to recognize me, to see me and light up like she used to, to tap me on the shoulder, watch Cinderella on repeat, and see the tears in her eyes when Cinderella’s mother dies. I want her to pull me up to dance with her to the title song, her version of “exercise” since she never likes to sweat as it might “ruin her hair.” I want to buy her gifts, take her to brunch, have her wear a big pink hat and revel in being a Mom to six kids.
But like so many others on Mother’s Day, those who have lost their mothers in one way or another, I don’t get to do that anymore.
I went to a wine night with moms from my kid’s school the other night, and was again surprised that I felt jealous when they all talked about seeing their own Moms this weekend. I want to be happy for them, but as they talked, my heart literally squeezed like someone was trying to make lemonade out of it.
I found myself dreading Mother’s Day, and thought I would just turn off my phone on the big day, so I wouldn’t see all the Happy Mother’s Day messages flinging around on there.
Even trying not to think about my lemonade heart, I came across things from my Mom all day: the mother-daughter book she gave me telling me about my childhood, the paper photo album full of cards that were scotch taped onto thick black construction paper… all from March 1969, the month I was born. She saved them all. I cut my finger turning the page, and when I yanked my hand back, I remember how my Mom would always look at my paper cuts, say, “Oh! Those really hurt!” Then she’d get the first aid kit she kept on top of the refrigerator and wrap a band aid around my finger. She understood I just needed a moment of my Mom.
As I wrapped a band aid around my own finger, I thought about what I could do to pull myself out of my sadness? How could I truly honor my Mom today? Dance to the music from her favorite movies, Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast, the Christmas Prince? Make her favorite desserts, Lemon Bars, Lemon Meringue Pie, Lemon Pound Cake? The kitchen was off-limits today, by order of myself, so I nixed those ideas and asked my daughter to bring me some hot water with lemon.
If today was going to feel tart and bittersweet, I may as well embrace it.
Annabelle brought me an entire breakfast tray with a cappuccino, eggs, strawberries and coconut, and almond butter and bananas on toast. Then she sat on the foot of my bed and talked to me for two hours about what was going on in her head and heart. That to me was a perfect Mother’s Day morning. We went to pick up her prom dress, and as I watched my beautiful girl walk around the shop, the train glittering behind her, the song “Slipping through my fingers” by ABBA played in my head, and I wondered if my Mom also felt like her heart was a lemon being squeezed over paper cuts when all six of her babies grew up and were about to graduate.
After my son’s Driver’s Ed course ended, he brought me a little book he made for me, where he’d written down all the things he loved about me, mostly things like “I love your craziness” and “I love it when you dance like a crazy person.”
(I guess my lasting parental impression on my son is that of crazy dancing, which I’m actually quite proud of.) He gave me a mug and read the words aloud to me. “See, it says, ‘Don’t let the muggles get you down’ with a picture of a blonde witch on it.”
My daughter saw it and yelled, “That’s not a blonde witch, Henry! That’s Luna Lovegood!”
“Blonde witch, Luna Lovegood, I don’t care. I love it.”
Then both kids snuggled next to me, the dogs draped themselves across the floor in front of me, and the cats curled up in circles on the arms of my purple velvet couch as we all watched The Wilds.
When I got up to get a drink, I rang a bell, and when the kids and pets all looked at me, I shouted “MAGICAL MOMENT!”
I do this on occasion, tap a glass with my spoon or ring a bell if there’s one nearby, just to celebrate one precious moment.
It’s my way of calling attention to one fleeting moment when everything seems just right. I had my kids next to me, my pets all around me, we all were safe, we all were happy.
I inhaled the sweetness, even though the edges were laced with bitterness.
Then again, maybe it’s the bitter parts that make the sweet parts extra sweet.
So maybe the best way to honor my Mom is to give myself the same compassion for stinging paper cuts that she did, and to pass that TLC onto my kids.
Before I went to sleep last night, I walked up to my Mom’s picture on my wall, kissed my finger and touched it to her cheek, then I leaned my forehead against her photo and said, “I miss you Mom.”
