Every day is kids' day. Every day is husbands' day. Every day is a work day. Every day is definitely not Mother's Day.
I read a very nice Facebook post by Isabel Allende, a favorite author of mine, that began that way: "Let's remember that every day is Mother's Day."
It was a lovely sentiment. I understand what she was saying: in short, every day should be Mother's Day. We should recognize the hard work mothers do every day.
Yes, we should.
On my way home from work yesterday I listened to an interview on KQED Forum with author Sandra Tsing Loh about her menopausal breakdown at the age of 46. She cited studies that show the most depressed group of people in America is mothers raising children. She noted that we try to do it all. Apparently full time working mothers today spend more time with their children than stay at home mothers did in the 1950s.
We are working hard to engage. Did I read enough books to my child? Is she getting too many GMOs? Too many non organic foods? Too much sugar? Should I home school? Private school?
And mine is only 2! I can only imagine what will be keeping me up at night in ten years.
Add to that the anxieties I have as a wife.
Then add to that the anxieties I have about myself.
I lay in bed the other night almost on the verge of tears wondering what Celaya would do if I died. Nobody will ever love her the way I do. She would be that poor girl that everyone feels sorry for, and they would all tell her how much her mother loved her, if only she could have grown up knowing her mother.
Why am I dying? What am I dying of?
I have no idea!
But it could happen.
It happens.
Right?
Yes. Every single day is something new. A new anxiety. A new hurdle to jump. A new task to incorporate into my ever growing pile of things to do each day. And I must get them all done. I must, or I won't be a good mother.
And because, for the most part, I do think I am a good mother, I planned and prepared for one day of spoiling, free of anxiety, free of stress, just eating, shopping, pampering.
I had a wonderful Mother's Day today. I woke up to hot coffee and a happy baby. I enjoyed a nice long run. I enjoyed my brunch on fancy Santana Row, and shopping along the boulevard and across the street at the Westfield Shopping center. As I strolled around the mall with the Starbucks coffee my husband stood in line for 20 minutes to buy for me, I reflected on how blessed I am to have so much love and to have come to such a satisfying place in my life. We have been pondering the idea of having another baby lately, and I was thinking how well that happy event would fit into our lives.
And for once, the mountainous rock of doubt and what if did not loom large above my head. I am only realizing now that I did not once think about all that could go wrong. My child could get Leukemia, my next baby could have Down's Syndrome (because I am sooo old). My happy marriage could fall apart. My boss could decide he hates me and fire me.
Oh, see? There. I'm doing it again.
I don't know what a good mother is. My sister called me a role model today. And I laugh to myself and think, "ha, she has no idea I laid on the bathroom floor last night for fifteen minutes feeling hurt and angry and ignoring my precious daughter whom I have been away from all day." Why? Over a petty argument with my adoring husband. Crazy.
My mother has been crazy for as long as I can remember. I love her dearly. But she is in all honesty crazy.
In fact, all the women that have been mother figures to me in my life have a little bit of crazy in them.
I suppose that, in the end, mothering is like anything else in life. I take what I want to do, what I do not want to do, and put that together with what I admire about what the mothers who came before me did and the what the mothers alongside me are doing. I do my best to avoid doing what I do not agree with (while at the same time reserving judgment in recognition of the fact that I may have to eat my words someday), and I work at it, every day. I work at it, and I do not get discouraged when my kid throws milk at me, pitches a fit in the grocery store, refuses to eat her vegetables, scatters marbles and tiny dinosaurs from one end of the house to the other, or any other insanity that is entirely age appropriate.
"She's crazy," I tell myself.
And someday, if I do everything exactly right, with only a few tiny missteps, if I struggle, and work, and love, and laugh, if I focus, and protect, and encourage, and embrace, if I get through the child rearing, adolescence enduring part of this journey called motherhood with an A+ on my scorecard, I just might be lucky enough to have my happy, well balanced, fully grown daughter say, shaking her head,
"My mom's crazy."
