Mother’s Day
Happy Mother's Day to all! Remember last year? I know that more than a few moms had a rough go last year, and I thought I'd repost this gem hoping that we can all laugh about it now!
I don’t remember many of them. They come and go and in the middle of the rest of those 364, they get a little lost. I remember various gifts and cards, but not many events.
Until today. I have a feeling that today will etch itself deeply within my memories. It will haunt me for the remainder of my days and though I will try to suppress it, the sights and smells will come to me more clearly than most others.
The first problem with Mother’s Day is that it’s on a Sunday. When else could it be, right? I mean the nation isn’t going to start giving women the day off on say a Wednesday. Then we’d have to do the same thing for Father’s Day, etc. Blah, blah, blah.
Saturdays are out because… well, I don’t know why exactly, but laundry and grocery shopping come to mind.
Now let’s not forget that we moms want nothing more than a leisurely day, with “Happy Mother’s Day” repeated hardly more than once. We’d like to get out of bed at a time of our choosing, dress without concern and also visit our own mothers with little fuss. We’d like to hear minimal bickering amongst the children on this day and bickering initiated by another adult should be a crime.
I imagine that many women enjoy some small likeness to this description. I, however, am a happy member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and motherhood is not only sacred it is to be celebrated. The children practice special songs for weeks to sing to moms during Sacrament Meeting. The speakers present talks about mothers. Flowers or small gifts are given to moms at the end of the service. It is glorious and thoughtful, sweet and generous.
The second problem with Mother’s Day is really all the pressure that’s put upon us. Implied pressure, of course, and all self-inflicted. It’s nice to have the recognition and we are grateful for the honor, don’t get me wrong. But is there a woman out there who feels like she’s proud of her “mothering”? Of course not, because other women could not be her friend. It’s written somewhere in the handbook of rules, I’m sure.
So, it’s like the line in A Christmas Story where Ralphie says of his mother that she “hadn’t had a hot meal since…” I don’t know what the line really is –I actually hate that movie, but you get the point. This is what we do. Motherhood is our occupation, and children are our duties. Whether we do it well or not, that’s not the point. Having a day to honor us for a job well done makes us have to stop and analyze if we are doing a good job.
Not to mention there’s the fact that most women wanted to have children in their lifetimes. God thoughtfully gave us those children and we love them. With all our hearts, we love them. Would be devastated without them. Now, we must feel guilty for those brief fleeting moments when we wonder why we wanted to do this.
Church, though well intentioned, is the perfect place for self-examination and retrospect. I do hope that next year someone will remind me to stay home!
I will say that my whole day was doomed due to my highly sinful addiction to caffeine and the fact that I had not consumed any on the day before Mother’s Day. Naturally I awoke to my head exploding with each new heartbeat. Excruciating. Couple that with 9 am church…oh yeah, it’s gonna be good!
After stumbling to the medicine cabinet and crying out to the Gods of Pain Relievers, I debated the possibility of sluffing. Admittedly, it wasn’t much of a debate though because each new throb of pain pulsing through my head brought the argument like a bulleted power point presentation.
§ Kids will be singing
§ Throb
§ You already missed “Muffins with Mom”
§ Throb
§ Don’t want to disappoint
§ Throb
§ God gave you children, don’t be an ingrate.
§ Throb
Let’s be honest. We know who won the debate.
I guess I don’t know how best to deal with those first-of-the-morning headaches, but on any other day of the week I would have slept it off. So, after my shower, I closed my eyes again for a few minutes and tried desperately to breathe and relax long enough for some relief. It was not my speediest attempt at getting ready for church.
I think we left the house between 8:57 and 9:02, not bad. Doesn’t matter. We were late.
It is the Ackerschott’s customary practice for S to drive us to church, stop at the closest entrance and let us out, then he goes and parks the car around back while we choose a seat. It should also be noted here that 1) S does not like to sit in the overflow of the chapel and 2) I notoriously make poor decisions when entering late (poor according to S).
Knowing these two facts I waited outside the chapel doors with the kids for S. I thought that he should go in first and I would follow so that I (on this day) wouldn’t make a bad decision.
You’ll be jealous of the very mature and educated commentary that followed:
“You go first and choose.”
“No, you go.”
“No you.”
“No you.”
“No.”
“Fine.”
And that my friends is how I walked in with my family trailing behind during the opening song. In search of an available pew somewhere, I am charged with the responsibility of asking a small family to move clear almost to the other side of a middle pew to make room for us…I chicken out. I can’t do that! What verse is it? Hurry up, everyone’s staring!
I wander a little further up and there’s nothing. Like a fish out of water I am. The song could end any minute.
Paige says there’s a bench up there and relieved to have someone to follow I say, “Let’s go there.”
Well, ladies and gentlemen, it is indeed the front row. Nothing in front of us but the pulpit. Nowhere to hide from the watchful eyes of the bishopric. When a speaker stand for his talk, we’ll be craning our necks up at him, closer than the front row at the movie theater, albeit a smaller screen.
During the last verse of the opening song, we sit. There’s enough music left for the brief conversation about how dreadful a decision it is and this one comment, “It’s not my fault we were late.”
I’m going to let that marinate for a minute, because even in retelling the account it needs to resonate in the air for a while.
What to do?
I thought I should leave. Just get up and walk out. Go. Who needs this?
No. I came. It was difficult, but I got here to hear the kids sing. Leave after that.
No. Won’t that freak them out unnecessarily? This is neither the time or the place for this.
--You can see how I wrestled with how to proceed.
I continued my internal argument for several minutes hearing nothing. Seeing nothing.
And then my crescendo: The sacrament prayer. For me this is when it ended. For those poor suckers on the stand, it’s where it began! The show and the waterworks would come and continue for the remainder of the meeting! I could not stop. My head was out of control and everything came at me in those few minutes. The guilt over missing “Muffins”; the speaker talking about an iconic mother: Mary; the stress of entertaining the day before; the fact that I’m in the front row; the pending results of a biopsy and all that it implies; my husband’s a jerk and oh yeah, I’m on the front row unable to control myself…on Mother’s Day!
I searched my bag for something else to do. Nothing. I repeated lines from sitcoms in my head. Still rolling tears, lots of nose wiping.
I vowed to relax and leave as soon as the singing would be over. I promised myself that I would pull myself together enough that I wouldn’t be a spectacle as I walked from the front and down the isle to the door, the only shield I could possibly have is a paper bag over my head and try as I might, there wasn’t one of those in my bag, either!
Finally, it was time and I still hadn’t made much progress. The adorable little children slowly gathered on the stand. For many it was their first time. They smiled shyly and looked for their moms and waved. Then as their bright smiling eyes passed over me their sweet faces fell and the look they wore was now shock. It was only for a brief moment for most of them, looking again for their own moms in the crowd. My sweet and adorable children, however, were treated to quite a sight from their mom. Let the singing commence:
“Mother dear, I love you so. Your happy smiling face.”
Silent Sobs.
“You’re such a joy to look at, you make home a lovely place.”
It’s a freaking nightmare, okay! I had pulled through the headache to see the singing. I had endured the knife in my back for the children’s faces. And here in front of the children’s faces with nothing to protect them, was me. Front row: terrifying the children.
More tears.
And now, I couldn’t leave again because I had to shield myself from the one or two people in the back who hadn’t caught on to my humiliation yet. There might’ve been someone who didn’t have a kid on their lap right then saying, “What’s wrong with Sister A?”
And following the next very painful twenty minutes or so (during a talk given by a man whose talk I bawled through the last time he spoke) all the mothers were asked to stand so that they could be given a flower that the youth would hand out. My oldest son quickly brought me an appropriate red petunia and I ran for the door!
P.S. I am now caffeinated and feeling much better.
P.P.S. I do still love my husband, but sometimes I don’t like him. But, like sacrament meeting, it may be with our teeth clenched and too many witnesses to hurt each other, but we’ll make it! When I wrote this, I was still mad. When I typed it, it got a little funnier. Here’s to time healing all wounds.
