“I hate Mother’s Day,” said one woman sitting at our table. Her face twisted in an expression of lament that matched her words as she spoke.
I wasn’t sure if she was pulling my leg but my wife and another woman chimed in commiserating with her complaint.
“I’d rather avoid the whole thing,” Karen commented.
“It’s such a painful reminder,” our other friend added.
“Of what?” I asked.
“Of all the things we aren’t doing as mothers,” they chimed, practically in unison.
And what followed was an extended conversation on all the things they wish they did better as mothers.
I was genuinely taken aback. All three of these ladies are women I admire, two from a distance, and one up close in my home, for the hundreds of things I see them do as mothers. Taking their kids (and their kids friends) to the science center for weekend field trips, teaching them how to dance, making every birthday special with cakes stylish enough for a photo shoot, and the list goes on.
At the top of that lists is the way I see them interact with their kids. Usually patient, typically playful, always doting and adulatory with love and affection. And yet these ladies are apparently engaged in a steady internal dialogue with themselves about their inadequacies.
I tried to counter their sentiments saying that the day isn’t supposed to be about what you aren’t. It’s about what you are. Good, mediocre or ugly, all moms merit at least one day of tribute. My friends weren’t buying it.
At church today one of the speakers echoed their sentiments. She is another of the mothers I hold in high regard, raising nine children in her blended family brood. Her kids are all well-heeled and highly accomplished, humble and well-regarded by their peers and the parents of their peers. And yet a central tenet of this mom’s message was that she feels like she falls short in comparison to the women around her.
I have my own issues with Mother’s Day. So much of what I hear in people’s attempts to honor mothers sounds more like an obituary of the beleaguered than a send-up to matriarchs. Maybe that’s the problem. In our efforts to extol a mother’s virtues, we make long lists of all the drudgeries we see women slog through and essentially pillory moms as martyrs.
Stripes come in all fashions. Some lashed from whippings, and others pinned on the sleeve as a plaudit. We’ve got to stop praising motherhood by virtue of its punishment and revel in it for its wonder. Yes, motherhood, parenting, is hard work. It’s a confusing, emotional march from the moment of conception to the day they finally move out. (And stay out, returning only to visit, if we’re lucky.).
But motherhood… parenting, isn’t a punishment. It’s a privilege. And more often than not, a pleasant one.
So every year we make lists about mega-moms that read like the best-of lists articles find in travel and restaurant magazines. “Top Ten Ocean Drives on the West Coast,” or “The Best Jambalaya Joints to Really Make You Jump,” “Mistakes that Really Good Moms Never Make.”
The problem with making lists of all the sacrifices and service, or even the joys and jubilations is that it distracts from what really counts. Lists amount to keeping score, and keeping score only creates winners… and losers. Parenting… motherhood or fatherhood, shouldn’t be about keeping score.
So I listened to my wife and our friends talk about their guilt and I silently wondered if that sort of deviation from rectitude was endemic specifically to Mormons, Catholics and Jews, or just an inescapable foible of human nature.
And then today I talked to another friend. I shared the “Mother’s Day Lament” conversation and thankfully, she couldn’t have disagreed more. Her take was essentially that the day was about giving kids a chance to express their love for their moms their own way, whether picking bouquets of dandelions, coloring a Garfield picture just for mom, or making a coupon book for services like room cleanings that are unlikely to ever be redeemed. Ironically, her point is that Mother’s Day ultimately ends up being more about the kids than the mothers.
So after thinking all of this through I’ve decided that for me, honoring mothers should be more about recognizing their influence than a list of things they’ve done. My mom’s greatest influence on me was a love for learning. Our relationship was never one of schmoopy kissy-faces or huddled up around the hearth for an evening of fresh-baked cookies and a lot of remember-whens. But it was steeped in a constant exposure to books, ideas and debate. What mom learned, we learned.
When she developed an interest in art and architecture, guess who got to see every example of architecture she could find? We lived in Italy at the time so that meant that every time we took a trip she made us stop at the piazza of every town we drove through, from Rome to Rimini, to explore the local church and museums. I hated her for it at the time. We’d approach a cathedral and she’d rattle off the column structure from Doric to Greco-whatever, and then we’d head inside and look at gilded Virgin Mary paintings from medieval days to the Renaissance. And there would be quizzes. Odious exams on what we’d learned about what she’d said. We learned it was easier to master the content for recital than to listen to the lecture again. I hated it because I was young and even stupider then than I am now. I was growing up in Europe in the cradle of Western civilization and resenting her efforts to get me to appreciate it. What an imbecile. But fortunately for me she persisted.
I don’t think these excursions were so much about her determination to ensure her kids grew up with a healthy liberal arts background as much as it was her insistence that we share in her own interests and participate. I guess every parent does that at some level. Some parents inculcate their kids with the art of American Idol and the architecture of the mall. Mine shared with me the greatest contributions history has to offer. They would have done that no matter where we lived. If we’d spent our lives in Omaha I would have learned all about the history of homesteaders, the science of agriculture and the influence of the mid-western work ethic. We would have taken family trips across the plains stopping to examine the architecture of every log cabin that was still standing. My mom would have persisted in her insatiable desire to learn and instilled the same in me no matter where we lived.
My wife also does a lot as a mother, much of it worthy of the lists of mothering lore. Birthdays always arrive with a handcrafted invitation, a custom cake, and a party experience that leaves everyone, party-goers and their parents, knowing they’re the most important person in the world. Halloween and Easter are inevitably ushered in with hand-sewn costumes and outfits. She reads with them, plays ping pong on the kitchen table, helps with homework. My wife does a lot as a mother, true, but she doesn’t do it all. The kids have to make their own breakfast and lunch; in addition to our dog, cat and chickens, we have a fine collection dust bunnies; sometimes she yells and I think she’s even missed a couple of their concerts. But the last words I hear out of my kid’s mouths every night is, “Do you promise you’ll check on me?” Because checking on them means lying in bed with them, telling stories, tickling, and talking about what matters most to them.
It’s not just that she shares her time that matters. A lot of parents spend time with their kids, attend their events, and make sure they have nifty parties. But showing up is not enough. It’s what you do while you’re there. I’ve seen more than one parent discredit themselves by how they act at their child’s event. They spend all their time talking to the other parents instead of playing with their kids at the party, or they go to the game and scream at the referee instead of cheering on their child. No, it’s not just about showing up.
With Karen it’s not about whether or not she shows up. It’s how she makes our kids feel. She exudes love, acceptance, and safety. She takes in everything they’ve got, and then gives it back better than it was. She reminds me of the Savior.
Like so many moms, Jesus fell short on a lot of lists too. He was criticized for keeping the Sabbath the wrong way, healing the wrong people, keeping bad company. For the people keeping lists… keeping score, Jesus was a loser. But ultimately, he came off the victor. He took everything in, took it all upon himself, and gave us back better than we were.
I’m sure my wife will keep making awesome costumes and churning out awesome parties. She loves doing that stuff. But that’s not what will count when our kids are old enough to really appreciate their mother. They’ll love her because she loved them first, she forgave them, she healed them, she taught them how to love others by serving them.
So I guess I’m wishing you all an Un-Happy Mother’s Day. Un-happy about the lists, for the losing score in a game you’ll never win, the things you haven’t done, aren’t going to do, and will definitely do wrong. But I wish you a truly Happy Mother’s Day. Happy for the influence you have, for the legacy you leave, and for the love you give.
