On this, my fourth Mother’s Day, I can’t help but reflect back on my first Mother’s Day with a snort. To be fair, I was a mere seven weeks postpartum and still dealing with a raging case of postpartum crazies, so there was no way it was going to end well. (Remind me to tell you about the postpartum crazies some other time.)
I was adamant. This was my first major holiday with baby, and it was Mother’s Day, damnit. We were going to have a big formal gathering and go out to dinner as a family to celebrate all the women in the family (and by all the women, I meant me). Technically speaking, the baby had been with us for Easter, but it was the day after her birth, we were in the hospital in a state of abject terror, and we’re not even quasi-religious.
For the blessed event, my mother’s parents came up from Florida to see their first great-grandchild. While I love my mom and I love my Granny, it is not unfair to suggest that the two of them together can be a tense combination. With the women inside and two older generations of men outside giving my husband pointers on staining the deck, the house was vibrating with anxiety.
At the appointed time, we all got dolled up and headed to my parents house for a photo shoot. I had a sweet little dress and sweater for the baby, and imagined a beautiful and touching series of photos showcasing three generations of women tenderly gazing on their newest female member.
I just found the resulting photo and was planning on posting along with this piece, but I’m pretty sure my mom reads my blog, and if she sees it on the web, she’ll stop babysitting for me. It’s worse than I remembered. I’m in my stretchy dress with the forgiving stomach area, boobs straining the lycra to the max. I appear to be wearing nylon stockings, probably the only time in the past five or ten years I’ve done so. I imagine this was in an effort to contain my gelatinous gut.
My mother is wearing her black ‘slacks’ and white button down, her go-to ‘dressy’ outfit at the time. I remember her being only slightly irritated with me that I requested we dress for dinner. We are standing behind an old-fashioned wing back chair in which my grandmother sits, holding the baby. You cannot see the baby’s face. We are not touching. Our smiles are strained, eyes glazed. I was probably crying or yelling at someone minutes before. Or both. There is one really sweet photo of my parents with the baby, caught in a candid moment when I was probably safely out of the room.
How I chose to dress the poor babe on that holiest of days.
Onward to dinner. The whole motley crew meets my brother and his wacked out girlfriend at the restaurant. The relationship was short lived, and to say she was uncomfortable at this particular gathering is an understatement. I was proud as can be, taking in all the cooing from passing customers and staff. We fretted over the placement of her car seat – was it safe on this upside down highchair? Will someone knock it over? Should I put it on the floor? Will someone step on her? Can we effing order already order before she wakes up and starts crying and I panic because I don’t know what to do when she wakes up in public??
Once we’ve ordered and are settled in, the Mother's Day cards come out. I’ve got one for my grandmother and my mother, my dad has one for my mom, etc. And of course, everyone has one for me. Everyone that is, except my husband. His response? A very honest, “I didn’t know. You’re not my mother.” Yeah, well I know your mother, buddy, and she would not approve. I think I cried at the table over it, and then bitched about it to him for days. Or I’m sure what felt like days to him.
To write this piece, I got up and dug through my card box. I had a total of nine cards from that first Mother’s Day. Including ones from my husband’s sister, brother, and parents. So someone got the memo. Anyway, I digress. As we’re opening cards at the restaurant, I start getting a little emotional. Sweep away a few tears here and there. I’m doing okay until I open a card that has a picture of the baby and I glued on the front. It says, “Daughter, you’re a mother now, and you know what it’s like to hold a little someone in your arms and realize you would give up your own life to protect this precious being.”
I start with a fresh round of tears, and say “Oh, Mom.” My mother says, “It’s not from me, it’s from your father.” SOB. I. Lose. My. Shit. I actually have to put the card away and come back to it later. The whole time my brother’s girlfriend is looking at me as though to say, “I will never, ever get old and fat and married and conduct myself in this totally disgusting manner.”
Later, I finally open the card and read the rest of the sappy Hallmark prose, along with another picture of baby and a note from my dad: “Twice blessed. A perfect daughter and a perfect granddaughter. Love, Pops.” I may have been on the floor at this point, I don’t recall. I do remember that we took dessert to go because I was at Def Con 1 due to baby’s pending consciousness.
Of course, I now know that a sleeping newborn is manna from the gods. This Mother’s Day, like most days, I awoke to the sound of thumping feet on the hardwood floor and the scrambling of a tiny person climbing up our bed. She allows a few minutes of laziness before demanding we go downstairs, and the day is full tilt from there. It’s all on the table: eating dog food, playing in the toilet, writing on the walls, screaming in the grocery store, pushing and biting other kids.
This Mother’s Day we continued a tradition of sorts. Yard work, playing outside, homemade presents and a clean house and dinner courtesy of the best daddy around. (He learned pretty quickly after I went all Carrie on him that first year. And in his defense, we regularly both forget our own wedding anniversary and other such events.) I don’t need a fancy dinner, or a carnation at the local pancake house for being a mom, or a big parade. The way I choose to spend Mother’s Day is pretty much how we spend most summer days. So that either means I have really low expectations, or my family treats me like Mother’s Day is every day. I’m sure you know which one of these I choose to believe.
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