There is one holiday that strikes fear in the hearts of mothers everywhere. Mother’s Day. It’s that day when we must stand up and be measured against the standards set forth on millions of cards.
On Mother’s Day I usually wake up with a headache. Will anyone remember that I’m a mother? Did my behavior over the past year warrant a gift from the kids?
A few years ago, I experienced a Mother’s Day that started out to be one of the worst days of my life. It didn’t feel like Mother’s Day. It seemed more like winter. The nest was empty, my branches barren. Months—years ago—my seedlings flew into the wind. My son, then nineteen, had struck out on his own.
I woke up that morning thinking of him, wondering if he’d call to wish me a happy Mother’s Day. If guilt had been a racket, I’d have been the ball being beaten against the wall.
Throughout the morning, my memory drifted back to every mistake I’d ever made as a mother. Nothing seemed bad enough to deserve this—being neglected on Mother’s Day.
I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he’d forgotten. Then I realized that with all the hype from advertisers, he’d have to be isolated in the remote regions of Tibet not to remember.
“He must have been in an accident,” I mused. “Why else would he forget me?” Then I decided he’d better have been in an accident because that was the only excuse I could accept.
The day was drawing to a close. It was two in the afternoon and not a word from him. By this time I was getting angry. Then guilt whopped me again. I felt bad by the time four o’clock rolled around.
At 4:10 the doorbell rang. The florist delivered a long-stemmed red rose. For me? I closed the door, hardly daring to breathe. Could it be? I read the card. “Happy Mother’s Day” was written in fancy script letters across the top. Beneath the formal heading the bold scrawl said, “I love you, Mom.”
What did I do? You guessed it. I sat down and bawled. A short time later David called.
“Did you get the rose?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you so much.”
“Is it nice?”
“It’s beautiful. They put it in a milk glass vase and tucked in baby’s breath and a feathery fern.”
“That’s neat.” After a few minutes of catching me up on his latest escapades, he announced, “Well, I gotta go. I just wanted to call and see if it came and tell you I love you.”
What can I say? He remembered. What I’d nearly pegged as one of the worst days of my life turned out to be one of the best.
I couldn’t help thinking about this idea of Mother’s Day and the expectations that go with it. So often our impression of real motherhood is mixed up in our mythtaken identity of what we think a mom ought to be.
Especially for Moms
Every year on the second Sunday in May, we celebrate Mother’s Day. It is a day set aside to honor mothers everywhere. Never mind the fact that your family tells you: “Leave the dishes today, Mom. It’s Mother’s Day and you shouldn’t be working. You can do them tomorrow.”
Try not to mourn the fact that secretaries and pickles re-ceive one full week of national acclaim, while we, like ground-hogs, get only one day.
Instead, hold dear to your heart:
It is these gifts, created in love by your child’s inexperienced hands, that make being a mother worthwhile.
Yet that is not what merchandisers across the country want us to believe. Take a look at the racks of Mother’s Day cards and paraphernalia overflowing the stores in March and April and into May. The merchants make a bundle, reaping the harvest off the guilt seeds they planted in us.
The Guilt Trip of the Century
Mother’s Day was originally designed to honor Mom with love. Commercialism has made Mother’s Day the greatest contributing factor to guilt in this century. Kids of all ages feel guilt when Mother’s Day rolls around—me included. I’d love to be able to hand over to Mother the keys to a new Porsche or even a microwave oven. But who can afford it?
As a mother, on the other hand, I wonder if my kids will remember me. What lovely gift will I be blessed with this year? The only one who could afford that Norwegian silver fox jacket is my husband, but if he’s told me once he’s told me a hundred times, “You’re not my mother.”
I feel guilty and a bit selfish about where my thoughts have taken me. After all, I should be thrilled with any kind of remembrance, even if it’s just a hug. Aren’t those kinds of gifts the best? At least that’s what I always told my kids. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hasty.
I try not to watch as someone else’s son buys his mother a giant-screen television set, complete with a satellite dish. “After all,” I muse, “he’s probably just appeasing his guilt over not speaking to her all year.”
Then there are the cards. How can mothers read the flowery descriptions of what we’re supposed to be and not feel guilty?
According to the cards, mothers are sunshine, laughter, moonlight, and roses. Mothers are ever faithful, enduring, strong, and compassionate.
Quite frankly, verses on Mother’s Day cards make me want to do two things: first, salute and recite the scouts’ motto (“On my honor I will do my best to do my duty”); second, throw up.
We’ve Created a Monster
Over the years we have come to believe in this superior, mythical being. Mothers often believe if they try hard enough they can achieve the ultimate level of motherhood. When we fail we feel guilty and may even end up in the dark dungeons of low self-esteem.
Believing in the ideal mom is not without its hazards for the kids too. “Strangely enough, it is the overidealization of the maternal instinct which accounts for the thousands of neglected children among us,” writes Ruth Herschberger in Adam’s Rib.[1] While this isn’t the only reason for abused and neglected children, she certainly has a point.
The ideal-mother image brings guilt. Guilt often causes us to turn away from the problem—the children. When we can’t live up to our expectations (and society’s) we often resort to blaming others for our inadequacies. We may begin to think, If only the kids would shape up, I could be like “her.”
Children often feel cheated because their mother doesn’t meet the qualifications set forth on the cards.
Thus we find ourselves competing with “Everybody Else’s Mom.” By hanging on to the ideal, we’ve created a monster.
Erma Bombeck, in her book Motherhood: The Second Oldest Profession, describes her this way:
She has no name. Her phone number is unlisted. But she exists in the mind of every child who has ever tried to get his own way and used her as a last resort. Everybody Else’s Mother is right out of the pages of Greek mythology—mysterious, obscure, and surrounded by hearsay…. She is the answer to every child’s prayer…. She likes snakes, ice cream before dinner, and unmade beds…. She lives in the hearts of children everywhere who have to believe that somewhere there is an adult on their side.[2]
Motherhood, the American Flag, and Apple Pie
Mom is the American Dream, right up there with the flag and apple pie. We are told that from her womb comes the dream of future peace and a perfect nation of brave, creative, intelligent, happy, generous, and “good” people.
Yet, corny as it may sound, there is a part of each one of us that secretly believes in what Pope Pius XII referred to as the “crown of creation … expression of all that is best, kindest, most lovable here below.” I long to give that perfect kind of mother love.
As a young mother perfect love poured around me like a rainbow, but I couldn’t grasp it. It hovered, perpetually out of reach. I would judge myself by that standard and feel like a failure.
Then I realized it was like believing that somehow I could be as perfect, right, and just as God Himself. If that were the case, though, why would we need God?
While I believe in striving to be the best mother I can be, I have learned not to feel intimidated or guilt ridden by descriptions of the perfect mother.
So what is all this leading to? Am I out to abolish Mother’s Day, or (gasp) motherhood? Heaven forbid. No, nothing so drastic. I only point out these poetic and idealistic impressions of motherhood to say that is precisely what they are—poetic, idealistic impressions. They are a child’s illusion—a blend of ingredients that, if measured in the exact proportions, could create the perfect mother.
Although few of us can be ideal moms (believe it or not, I’ve met a few who thought they were), we take our role of mothering seriously. We try to be better mothers by learning what our kids need most in us.
I used to believe in the mythical, mystical, magical mom. But I eventually learned to dig my way out from under the dung heap of high ideals, accept myself for being an imperfect but okay person, and become more like the mom my kids really needed.
If you’re a mom who finds herself held under by piles of high expectations, there’s only one solution—start digging.