Superhero

Yesterday was Mother's Day. First celebrated in 1907, when a member of Andrews Methodist Episcopal Church in Grafton, Virgina had the idea of a special day to honor moms.  My first Mother's Day - as a mom - was May of 1990.  I'd given birth to my son in November of 1989 and most likely was honored by my then husband on this momentous inaugural day.  Honestly, I don't remember much from those early years of motherhood, what with nursing and diapers, and the oh so famous buzzwords of work / life balance.

In the next four and half years, I'd become a mother twice more.  I'd cherish the little pre-school tchotchkes and construction paper cards that my children presented with wide-eyed expectation.  Many years and many moves later these ephemeral keepsakes have been relegated to the trash bin.  A few years into this practice of kids making me French Toast to feast upon in bed, it occurred to me that Father's Day should come before Mother's Day.  It could serve as a preview of gift giving and remembering.  

The spring of 1998 was the saddest Mother's Day for me.  My own mom had passed away the previous summer and I was finishing that agonizing year of firsts.  Her birthday, Hanukkah, my birthday, and so on.  Mother's Day hit hard.  While I was a mom to three amazing littles, I missed my own mother in a palpable and painful way.  All I wanted to do on that second Sunday in May and for many years to come, was hide in bed, under a pillow.  But as moms we muster!  Pull up our postpartum panties and smile through the sorrow.  

As years progressed, I craved alone time on Mother's Day.  I wanted my emotionally unavailable husband to father up on Mother's Day and take the children out on an adventure so I could wallow a bit in the sadness of losing my own mother.  As a kindergartener our teacher taught us how to make a flower bouquet using tissues and pipe cleaners.  I declined having Mrs. Hoffman spray perfume on the posy I would present to my beloved mom.  Even as a six-year-old I was aware of my mother's allergies, quirks and idiosyncrasies.  Why wasn't anyone paying attention to my needs?

I had suggestions for my future ex, like getting me a massage on this day or letting me take a walk by myself; anything to remove me from the heartache of facing life without my touchstone.  I am sure there was a bit of 'me time' carved out, but I also began to harbor resentments.  I resented having to beg for a moment.  I resented my ex-husband having both of his parents when I had none.  I resented my friends for complaining about how difficult their mothers are - I ached to be mad at my mom just one more time.

The combination of depression and grief I was experiencing did not set the perfect scene for my children regarding Mother's Day.  Did I teach them that a day where I was supposed to be thrilled about being a mom - their mom- brought more dread than delight?  I got better as they got older, allowing my children to show me how much they care about me and love me with small gifts and gatherings.  

Yesterday two of my kids and all of my grands met in a park for playing, eating and a walk on the trail.  I had my granddaughter for the weekend.  Her mom was in the last weekend of college and needed homework time.  I get it.  Every time I watch this three-year-old I remember how as young moms our time is not our own.  For my daughter as a single mom?  More so than for someone with a partner. And for the first time in her motherhood years, my daughter's birthday coincided with the holiday ideated all those years ago by Anna Jarvis.

My daughter did not want to meet her siblings, me and nephews for the festivities.  She craved a morning to herself.  I could go down the road of flexibility, and scheduling conflicts but I won't.  Recently my therapist suggested I institute a new family tradition, like a monthly gathering with my kids and grands.  After the hubbub of trying to schedule one day this past weekend, I abandon all thought of that undertaking.  I actually was not insulted that my youngest wanted a moment to herself.  I also reflected that she might have learned the behavior I unwittingly modeled all those years ago.  After all, she grew up with a mom who wanted a moment on Mother's Day!

Superhero

by Jane Hillson Aiello

Diapers and nursing and working.  Trying to keep

my husband happy and my children from dying.  Cook,

homework helper, project manager.  Housekeeper,

chauffeur, medical monitor, social director, volunteer.

Spiritual advisor to the babies I birthed.  Mental illness,

drug addiction, divorce, autoimmunity.  Waldo Canon Fire.

Children left, came back, left again. Holding grudges and

Resentments. Holding their own. Holding me up.  Holding on.

Holding guns.  Holding knives.  Holding scissors.

They made it to adulthood.  I am a fucking superhero.