My Mother’s Day expectations have changed drastically over the years. In the early years, apart from handmade heart-melts from the boys, the pressure was all on my husband.
After we separated, the boys had to be trained to step up. Some years I was pleasantly surprised by breakfast in bed; other years I had to remind them, demanding ANY small token, like a cup of tea or doing dishes without dramatics.
There were the years I gave them cash to go get me a little something, only to receive a barely something from the corner store, and surprise! they had extra pocket money for candy for themselves.
Then there was the year they wouldn’t take my money, giddily promising a grand Mother’s Day outing, only to have them grow quiet, and eventually admit that they’d fallen for an online scam. I ended up taking them out to cheer them up (refer to photo for level of cheering success).
Now, more and more, year after year, as my sons enter adulthood, my feeling of responsibility to them grows on this day, and my feeling of entitlement shrinks.
No child asks to be born. And my children did not ask me to adopt them. The very existence of the relationship is my responsibility.
So, while finally getting my Mother’s Day “breakfast” at 1pm, I’m thinking about them, what I owe them, what they need from me, how to do better as their Mom.
And I’m thinking of the large crew of family and friends who’ve helped mother my sons.
And thinking of the childless women I know who’ve helped raise children in a myriad of ways without acknowledgement.
And those with challenging relationships with their own mothers, who find today a difficult day each year.
And those estranged from their children. I’m thinking of my sons’ birth mother, and all the women who live with the pain of separation from their children.
My youngest is shrieking with laughter watching something online right now. And I am well-aware that I’m lucky-bloody-lucky that I get to hear that sound.
Mother’s Day, 2017