Another Day in the Country
Another Mother’s Day
Contributing writer
As a mother, is Mother’s Day something you look forward too? Do you relish the celebration? Is the anticipation palpable? Can you hardly wait? Me neither.
While families plan and children may be anticipatory — there is an obligation here, don’t forget — I’ve had bad experiences around this event.
I remember one year, my husband and both kids were sick with the Asian flu —remember that? More than once a daughter called to report bad news. At least twice, my girls wrecked the car on Mother’s Day. The good news was they weren’t hurt.
The neighbor’s dogs broke into my chicken house and killed all my little chicks Saturday — the day before Mother’s Day. My little exotic chicks that I’d waited for, mothered, hovered over, fed, watered, watched, and cleaned up after in the bathroom, were all gone.
In the big scheme of things, losing my chicks was a small thing. There are mothers every day losing real children, in one way or another, every day of the year. I’m grateful for my blessings on this past Mother’s Day because my loved ones are alive and filled with options.
I really don’t look forward to Mother’s Day, though. I really wouldn’t miss it if it were deleted from the calendar. It seems to me like a day ripe for disappointment, even though I’ve had my share of surprises, unexpected flowers, and breakfasts in bed.
By the time Mother’s Day arrived on the calendar this year, I’d already celebrated Mother’s Day for almost a month; doing what mother’s do. I’d been with my daughter, her husband, my grandchild; trying to blend in, be helpful, not be a burden, enjoy their presence, count my blessings, cleaning up things, and painting the garage. I’d washed dishes, offered to cook, done the laundry, and folded bushels of clothes. I’d played endless games from sea turtles to pirates, read more than 30 books in one day to a little boy while we waited on his mother to finish teaching her fencing class. I’d witnessed meltdowns, kept my opinions to myself, and handled one insurrection myself.
For three weeks, I ate what they ate, went where they wanted to go, and paid the bills at restaurants. It’s what mothers do, right? I faded into the woodwork if there was a “family matter” that needed to be settled and checked carefully before going around the corner of the house lest I bump into my son-in-law smoking — he doesn’t think I know.
When my daughter asked for advice, I weighed my words carefully. I watched and listened, supported and upheld, laughed a lot, and looked for ways to be helpful. I took endless photographs and even wrote down stories, conversations with my grandson so that I could remember to share them with his Auntie Jess. He just turned 4. It’s probably my favorite age. So many possibilities.
A month ago, I was returning to the Napa Valley, where I lived for more than 30 years, and running into people I’d known.
“Pat, how nice to see you!” someone said at the grocery store.
“Her name is Baba,” piped up my grandson with unaccustomed authority. “She’s my Baba,” he gulped for air and pointed at his mother (he was on a roll). “And would you believe she is my Mom’s mom?”
This usually shy boy suddenly stopped, registering that he was indeed talking — at length — to someone he didn’t even know and abruptly buried his head in his mother’s skirt.
Whether or not the calendar says “Mother’s Day,” these are the memories I celebrate every day on another day in the country.