on mothers’ and their days

I have to admit, the whole idea of Mother’s Day is a bit much for me. Come mid May, with Spring in full swing and kids on the go, the last thing I want for my Sunday is a busy overpriced brunch at a local hotel that I couldn’t afford to stay in never mind eat at. And while a random act of floral gratitude is always nice, it’s not the same if it’s a pre-set premium-priced obligation.

The truth is, I didn’t really understand the depth and meaning of motherhood until I myself joined the club. Maybe it was the weeks of sleep deprivation that indoctrinated me or maybe it was just the overwhelming joy of realizing my life’s purpose was, after all the fussing and postering and positioning of young(ish) adulthood, life itself.

I love my mom. But I truly didn’t understand her until I held my own baby. And to some extent, I think she understood that too. That’s what happens when you come from a long line of mothers (thanks to my dad for that bit of wisdom).

The thing that just doesn’t work for me about Mother’s Day is this. We don’t parent out of a need for recognition or appreciation. And God help us if we did.  We’d be sorry. I think we parent for ourselves. A need we wish and hope to fill. If we are so lucky to do so, any sacrifice we might make is largely imperceptible and minute compared to the unconditional love of a child.  And even if we are called upon to make incredible sacrifice, love trumps that too.

I got to spend my first mother’s day with my mom. Sort of. She was here to see the baby and help me settle into my new life. The Saturday morning before Mother’s Day, she headed home. But not before visiting a few yard sales. A fun hobby of ours when we are together. On Sunday morning, I found the “Mom” coffee cup she’d picked up on her latest outing. I use it everyday and indeed, my cup runneth over still.

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