My relationship with Mother’s Day is what therapists might call “complicated.” For 33 years, this Hallmark holiday has been less about celebration and more about coordination, controversy, and, occasionally, contemplating smashing a glass bowl.
The timing is impeccable–right after we have survived the spring holiday extravaganza and just before the end of the year whirlwind arrives. It’s akin to scheduling a spa day in the middle of moving homes.
Then, there’s the delightful catch-22 of responsibility. My father helpfully clarified that honoring my mother was my job (not his–she’s not his mother after all). Meanwhile, my husband applied the same logic with our children, apparently expecting our then 10, 6, and 1-year-olds to plan a celebration. Perhaps the toddler could drive everyone to brunch?
My late mother-in-law wisely opted out of the entire greeting card industrial complex. Consequently, my husband was not “well-trained” in the rules of celebration. For years, I reminded him to send his own mother cards, sometimes handling them myself. The irony of orchestrating my own appreciation day was never lost on me.
What did my mom-friends and I actually want during those intense parenting years? Not that anyone ever asked. A day of nothing—no cooking, cleaning, decisions, or responsibility. Meanwhile, the typical Father’s Day (with better weather, no less) involves men cheerfully heading off for golf or fishing without a second thought.
Breakfast in bed sounds lovely until you’re picking egg out of your sheets or fielding whispered questions about where to find the pancake flipper. “It’s on the counter where it has been for the last ten years, honey.”
Ironically, greeting cards became my favorite part of the holiday. Humor is how we honor–nothing sappy except for the handmade school projects, which were always treasured even as they deposited eternal residues of glitter.
Gifts, however, led to some memorable disagreements, like the infamous glass bowl incident. Nothing says, “I appreciate your tireless maternal devotion,” quite like a container that could have been on our wedding registry. The fact that I’d recently watched a sitcom where two sons gave their despised mother the same gift didn’t help. My friends still reference “The Bowl Incident of ’03.”
As children grow up, Mother’s Day evolves again. This year, my eldest and his husband will be out of town, my youngest is at college, and it’s unlikely my middle son or husband will have a plan. I’ll likely hear, “What do you want to do?” a question I’ve grown to loathe (and a subject for another day). I will celebrate my mother, who (reasonably) wants to spend time with me.
Perhaps my mother-in-law was the wisest of us all with her no-expectations approach. Or better yet, maybe we mothers should declare what we want: a day with less obligation and more joy.
And definitely no glass bowls.
