Mother's Day Reflections from an Orphan

I wanted to write about my mom this Mother’s Day. I loved her dearly. She gave so much to me and I miss her incredibly. But as I have repeatedly stalled out over the words the past few days, I finally accepted that perhaps I was just not ready to do so. 

I have never put much emphasis on Mother’s Day, at least not as far as me being the mother is concerned. I’ve always considered it to be one of those Hallmark holidays that obligate people to spend money or feel guilty if they don’t. It’s filled with imperatives. I do not want to be feted out of duty. I’d rather be treated to lunch in the middle of March “just because” than to be paraded into a restaurant on Mother’s Day with the rest of the throngs because the calendar and big business dictates it. This position, however, has never stopped me from trying to meet other people’s needs on Mother’s Day.

Then

My first memory of trying to make my mother happy on Mother’s Day was when I was about 8. I decided that my sister and I should pool our allowances (saved faithfully week after week in our homemade Tupperware banks) and convince our father to take mom to Lake Placid for a weekend. Lake Placid, I knew, had been their honeymoon destination, so I figured it had to be a nice place. The reason for this particular gift was to give her a break from my sister and me because we fought constantly. Mom just hated that. “I can stand noise,” she always said, “but I can’t stand fighting.”  Dad was only too happy to agree to the plan especially since it involved a road trip, although I’m sure it cost him a bundle more than what we had to offer up as payment.  However, since affordability was never a barrier to his good time, he willingly complied and whisked her away.

My last memory of trying to bring my mother happiness on Mother’s Day was the spring before she passed away. It had become my practice to fly her and my brother to New York City for Mother’s Day, but that year she was much too weak to tolerate airports and hassles. So, my daughter and I trekked across the state to spend the day with her, my brother, and our aunt and uncle. Photos taken of her that day provide evidence that she was already beginning to fade away from us.

The following year, she was gone. My brother, having lost his mother and his home as a result, had been moved into a group home; my aunt, mom’s older sister, wept much of the time, in disbelief and grief.  So my attention turned to their needs. I felt driven to show up, to “be there” for them, and to try to make the day as easy as possible. Mother’s Day now included a visit to the cemetery, bouquets of roses, mom’s favorite, lovingly placed at her grave, and dinner out with the survivors. Mom had already abandoned them – I couldn’t do the same.  My daughter understood and urged me to do what I needed to do.  She understands internal conflict.

And now

This year was to be my sixth Mother’s Day as an orphan. I decided to stay home. Well, not so much stay home as come home because I was actually across the state with my brother as the weekend began. My sweet daughter had announced weeks before as we compared schedules her intention to block Mother’s Day off to spend with me. Although we connect most days by text or email, we don’t get to see each other as often as we’d like. It’s rare that we end up with the same day free. So this was an offer not to be refused and with her, obligation is not even a consideration. I drove home Saturday night to be with her.

Sunday unfolds into sunshine. I pick her up at her apartment in the city early – 7:30 a.m. which means I am up at 6.  She could have taken the train but fetching her means more time together so I am totally up for the trip no matter what the hour or how little sleep I’ve had. The conversation begins the minute she climbs in the car, and it doesn’t stop. At home, we make breakfast together, fresh blueberry pancakes, gluten-free, and we laugh over the chai lattes we bought on the way here. The day morphs into stunningly gorgeous. We leave the house and walk on a nearby winding parkway that closes to motorized traffic for eight glorious Sundays in the spring. I have always wanted to do this, but weather and my constant cross-state trips have conspired against it until today. We share the pavement with bikes, joggers, strollers, and other walkers.  The trees are in full bloom and often shade the road; the river for which the parkway is named, is swollen and rushes over the rocks creating music in the background. We talk non-stop about our jobs, what we want for the future, vacation plans, current events, men in her life, how our shopping ban is going, and our observations about how people we encounter with children are interacting with them. Five-and-a-half miles later, in only slight pain, we leave the parkway, stop at a yuppie deli in my village, order sandwiches and eat outside on sidewalk tables. We top it off with gelato and refuse to feel guilty.  We are comfortable in our jeans (me) and yoga pants (her) and we are together. No reservations necessary.

As we sit on the sidewalk, she suddenly asks, “So how are you doing today?”  This is not a random or rhetorical question. She means, “Are you ok since this is Mother’s Day and grammie is dead?” She’s probably been wondering when and how to fit this in during our conversation which has now spanned several hours. A part of her truly wants an open and authentic relationship with me and by definition, this must include both the good and the not-so-good. The other part of her hopes I’m still the mom who can handle everything, including my emotions with aplomb.    

Knowing my daughter, I should have expected it, but I admit the question catches me off-guard. I hesitate, not quite knowing what to say. I go for the truth. “Well,” I say carefully. “I know it is Mother’s Day, and I am aware that my own mom is not here. But did I wake up this morning and have my first thought be about what I don’t have? No, I did not.  I confess it wasn’t even my second thought. What I did think was I’m so happy I’m going to see my kid today. My mind was on what I do have.”  I hasten to add that I do miss Grammie, almost every day. But this year I am at peace. I am home with my own precious child.  And it is a perfect day.

I'm late! I'm late! For a Very Important Date!

"I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date! I'm late! I'm late! I'm late!" So panicked the White Rabbit of Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland.  WR and I have a lot in common at this moment.

I have been trying to write an entry for this blog since last Friday. It’s Wednesday morning. Not much has interfered with my disciplined effort to produce on a weekly basis, but this time, a multitude of obligations have come between me and myself.

Right now, I need to get to the post office to mail a box of Christmas cut-out-frosted-decorated cookies to my aunt and uncle in Florida and they need to arrive by Friday. These are my mom’s cookies – the ones that take oh-so-much time to make, but are oh-so-worth-the-effort. My aunt and uncle are 90 and 91, respectively and I have done this for them since the time my mom couldn’t do it any longer. Their exclamations of joy and appreciation make the time and effort entirely worth it. However, I should have been at the post office when it opened – or so I believe. The reason I am not is that I have my sweet brother in residence for the holidays. He has two speeds, slow and slower (although my daughter maintains the speeds are slow and stopped). We must get through a shower, a shave, a brushing of the teeth, and the donning of clothing – all of which are meticulously completed, after which he will likely proudly announce, “See? I fast!” I take a deep breath and try to find something else to do while I am waiting that’s equally as important (like writing this).

When did the time of Advent become a race to the finish line? Someone I know has been posting daily “antidotes” to the stress of the holidays on her blog since December 1. Most of the antidotes involve, simplistically summarized (and I do mean “simplistic” because her writing is at once elegant and thought-provoking), recognition of and connection with what is real. 

I can’t recall a year when I have been so torn between values and tradition, must-do’s and want-to-do’s. Much of it, I am sure, is simply a result of conflicting time frames. Every time I had to make a choice between something I wanted to do vs. what was due for some class, well – you know what I did. Consequently, for the first time since the early 1970s, my Christmas tree remained in the closet until December 19. It’s usually up the weekend after Thanksgiving because ordinarily, it probably gives me more pleasure than anything else associated with this holiday. Getting the tree out and up this year happened solely because of the brother-in-residence phenomenon….otherwise, this would likely have been the year that Christmas barely happened.  My beloved Christmas village remains boxed. Only about a third of my massive collection of ornaments dangles from tree limbs. There are no lights on the porch, no Christmas dishes to eat on, no poinsettia or wreath…. I am feeling a little like a Christmas failure.  

While I listen to the whir of my brother’s shaver and tell myself that express mail is a miracle, I cling to the moments during this season of theoretical joy when I have felt real and connected, and wasn’t thinking about what I needed to do next. In no particular order, they are:

• The family Christmas party at my brother’s group home. After four years, I’ve come to know and appreciate his housemates and their families, and to cherish the dedicated and kind staff. All but two of the staff members made it to Saturday’s party. One former housemate returned. Two former staff members showed up. The eager, “Are you here for our party?” from the verbal housemates, the dishes of food we all contributed, the easy conversation that comes from years of shared concern and strategizing, and the excitement with which my brother’s housemates tackled their Christmas presents – that was real and it was fun.
• Ninety minutes with two good friends, a mother and daughter whom I’ve known since I was in my teens. We three once worked together in a restaurant in my hometown. I don’t get to see them very often as we live 350 miles apart, and when I am in their vicinity, I am usually attending to my brother. I knew from the younger of them that Saturday would be their cookie decorating marathon, and so when the gift of time presented itself, I took the chance and dropped in. No advance phone call needed. I knew I would be welcome. Besides the delicious opportunity to sample their cookies, the love and laughter that flows between us when we get an opportunity to catch up and just be with each other is affirming. They ask nothing of me, except to show up when I can. And when I can’t, they understand.
• Two hour+ phone conversations with my sweet daughter about our changing perceptions of holiday celebrations and what’s important to each of us. It is sometimes painful as we slog through this together… but it’s real and it’s honest.
• The half-mile walk at night from the train station to my home amid all the Christmas lights that adorn the trees, shrubs, and walk-ways of the various apartment buildings. The lights of Christmas have always soothed me. Light is important. Color almost equally so.

As I formulate my plans for future holiday celebrations, I will revisit these moments. The effort to determine what needs to remain and what needs to change will require that.  At the moment, my sweet tortoise brother has just proclaimed, “See? I fast.”