My son recently asked me the question I have been WAITING for one of my children to ask for years.
“Mom, how come you get a Mother’s Day and we don’t get a day?”
Haven’t you been waiting all of your adult life to answer that question just like your parents did?
“Because every day is Kid’s Day.”
I never understood that as a child, but now as the mom of three small children, I wish I had a tattoo across my forehead that said it. I would be a hit at Chuck E. Cheese.
Have you ever noticed how Father’s Day tends to be the day that the dads get to take off and go play golf or something that is decidedly away from the rest of the family? And that Mother’s Day seems to involve a lot of family bonding and yard work? How exactly did that happen?
It confirms my belief that these two holidays were invented by a card company to increase sales and that that card company was run by a man. Probably the brother of the guy who invented pantyhose. Otherwise, Father’s Day would be in May–just in time for spring clean up. And Mother’s Day would be in June–the perfect weather for laying by the pool and sipping frozen alcoholic beverages.
I guess we moms should count ourselves lucky that Mother’s Day doesn’t fall on “National Clean Out Your Pantry Day” or something.
I was strangely oblivious to how hard Mother’s Day would be the first year my husband was gone. I knew Father’s Day would be hard, but my husband was never big on spoiling me for Mother’s Day. It took 5 years of very strong hints for him to realize–I didn’t want to be with any of them on Mother’s Day. I wanted a break.
I know that sounds terrible, but you were thinking it too.
I always knew that Father’s Day would be a heart-wrenching day to get through and I’ve gotten used to the feeling of dread that hits at the beginning of June. I’ve made all of my kids’ teachers aware of the fact that my husband is no longer with us, so all of the Father’s Day crafts have the name Pop written on them and are bestowed upon my dad when we go over and pay homage.
In the last three years, we’ve gotten into a routine on Father’s Day that includes going up to the mountains (where my husband’s ashes are buried) and releasing balloons. Last year’s balloon release hit a little snag when, as I was putting the three balloons (one for each child) in the back of my minivan, a huge gust of wind came along and blew one out. This sent me into such a panic that I quickly slammed the hatch shut, popping a second one. I managed to convince my crying children that one balloon was enough, and Daddy would know that it was a family balloon.
I’m envisioning at least two extra years of therapy for my kids due to the Father’s Day Balloon Incident of 2009.
This year, my kids have been planning to write notes to Dad and send them up with the balloons. They have been asking me over and over if it’s okay. This has started to make me nervous that the notes might say something like, “Help! This woman doesn’t know what she’s doing and we may be on the verge of juvenile delinquency!”
Anyway, I was kind of surprised at the depths of my sorrow on my first Mother’s Day without him. That was when it occurred to me that there was no one here to remember the 200 hours of labor I went through to bring three children into the world. That even though my parents had been around to greet the kids when they finally made their appearance, my husband was really the only one who was there.
He may have been slightly hungover for the first one, but he was present. And he may have almost missed the second one, but he made it. And he was the one who was sitting beside me at church the third time around, when my water broke and we decided to go to brunch before the hospital because we knew we wouldn’t be fed for awhile.
It hit me that these memories weren’t ours anymore, they were mine. That’s a big concept to swallow. I am fortunate that my kids, even though they are young, get unreasonably excited about Mother’s Day. They start planning well in advance the things they are going to do for me. Last year, I figured out that they were planning on bringing me breakfast in bed, and I quickly went out and bought a donut for myself so they could pamper me in the way they saw fit. I just had visions of my 4-year-old trying to navigate the stairs with a full bowl of Cheerios and milk.
After three years of widowed Mother’s Days, I’ve gotten used to being “spoiled” by my kids and not having the anticipation of a special treat from my significant other. They were rare, but I always lived in hope. Hope of a surprise pedicure appointment. Hope that he would say, “You deserve a break. Why don’t you go to the movies?” Hope that he would just take the kids out of the house and leave me in peace for 10 minutes.
I will say, though, that I kind of miss not having anyone around to ask, “You didn’t get me anything for Mother’s Day?”
Wait, now that I think about it, maybe that was his gift. Because there’s nothing a mother likes more than a good guilt trip.
That sneaky devil.
Catherine Tidd 2010Tags: grief, hope