As I reflect back on this past Mother’s Day, it occurs to me that I’ve been in the mothering business for twenty-eight years. My daughter was born in 1979, and my son turns eighteen today. For twenty-eight years, I’ve been working this gig, singing this tune, fighting the good fight, and loving it. Challenging? Yep. Frustrating? Sometimes. Overwhelming? More often than I’d care to admit. Best job in the world? You bet’ca!
For twenty-seven of the last Mother’s Day celebrations, I’ve awaken to the sounds of pans banging in the kitchen as my kids prepared breakfast. After breakfast came the hugs, the candy, the gifts, and the proclamation that I was to put my feet up and take it easy for the entire day. Of course, the day never turned out that way.
Just as I’d get comfy in the recliner, I’d hear, “I can’t find the cinnamon, Mom.”
“Middle shelf, left side, cabinet by the stove,” I’d say.
“Don’t see it. Are you sure?”
I get out of the chair, go to the middle shelf, left-hand cabinet by the stove, push the jar of bay leaves to the side, grab the illusive jar of cinnamon and hand it to my child.
“Thanks, Mom” is followed by a kiss on the cheek and a hug. “Now go sit down, Mom. This is your day to relax.”
With a cup of coffee in one hand and the Sunday paper in the other, I sink back into the recliner.
“Mom, can I wash my new red pullover with my basketball jersey?”
“Only if you want your white jersey to turn pink,” I explain.
“If I wash them on cold, it’ll be okay. Right?”
“Wrong.” I’m out of the chair again. I put down the paper that will never be read and set down the coffee, which will be reheated in the microwave at least twice before I finally give up and pour it down the sink. I grab the pullover and head downstairs to the laundry room. After I get the wash going, I get another kiss on the cheek, another hug, and another reassurance that it’s my special day.
They mean well. They really do want me to “take it easy” and enjoy my Mother’s Day. The truth is that after twenty-eight years, the mothering instinct is too ingrained in my DNA to allow myself to enjoy lounging around while my family works. That’s basically how the last twenty-seven Mother’s Day celebrations have progressed at our house. But this year, everything changed.
I woke up this past Mother’s day to the gentle hum of the box fan I run all year—a holdover from working the graveyard shift for fifteen years. There was no banging of pots, no husband tapping my shoulder and whispering, “The kids want to know if you want pancakes or French toast,” and no dim roar of ESPN coming from the TV in the den. Except for the drone of the fan and the soft, pleading whimper of our golden retrieve, Jazz, begging to go outside, there was total silence.
It was Mother’s Day and I was alone. No son. No daughter. No husband. I was completely alone except for Jazz and a bossy, gray-haired cat named Pumpkin. My family had deserted me on the one day set aside to honor all mothers.
I walked through the house. Upstairs. Downstairs. Up to the loft. No human being could I find. I stood in the loft, looking down into the empty kitchen and the den with its silent television and considered my situation. My son had graduated high school at mid-term and was in California visiting friends. My daughter had married and now lived on the other side of the state. And my husband (God Bless Him) was in Texas spending Mother’s Day with his eighty-two-year-old mother who is bedridden with Parkinson’s.
Completely alone on Mother’s Day. Sounds sad, doesn’t it? A special day set aside to honor me the mom, and there wasn’t a kid insight. “My day,” I whispered. “My day to do anything I want,” I repeated, my voice getting louder as a wave of euphoria washed over me. This Mother’s day would truly be mine to do with as I pleased. What would I do with a whole day to myself?
First things first, I decided. A pot of tea instead of coffee. The Sunday morning paper still intact. An English muffin, toasted with Mayhaw jelly (a Southern treat), and nobody asking, “What happened to your diet, Mom?” Meet the Press instead of ESPN. A great start to what was shaping up to be a great day.”
A gentle mountain rain began to fall just as I finished the last of the tea. Jazz looked at me with her big brown eyes and yawned. “Great idea, Jazzie!” A nap became the next item on my agenda.
By the time Jazz and I awoke from our nap, the sun was out. After a quick sandwich, I grabbed a diet drink and the novel I’d been trying to finish reading for a month and moseyed out on the deck. I sat down in the glider and Pumpkin curled up beside me. Jazz sat by the railing watching the four does and two fawns lunching in our back yard.
After finishing the book, I decided a walk along the ridge would be nice. I live in this incredibly beautiful valley in northwest Montana. Our log home is nestled right at the tree line, about a mile up the mountain and a good eight miles from town. The Blacktail Mountains rise in the west. Looking east is Bad Rock Pass and the snow covered peaks of Glacier National Park. Besides the deer, we get the occasional, moose, elk, cougar, and black bear. This is my ten acres of paradise, and the reason I spent fifteen years working the graveyard shift in a Texas oil refinery.
After the walk, I spend a couple of hours writing. Finished my article and emailed to my editor a day early. Dinner is a salad, a steak grilled on the George Foreman, and a little red wine. Afterwards, my little group gathers on the deck again. From here, I watch the sun sliding behind blue-green mountains frosted with the last dollops of spring snow, their reflection captured in the still waters of Smith Lake.
When the phone rings at midnight, I know it’s my son calling for the third time to wish me Happy Mother’s Day and tell me how sorry he was that I had to spend the day alone. His sister had called three times that day with the same lament. My husband called four times. My dad and brother once each. I told them all not to feel bad about being gone on my special day. I told them I’d had a very nice day. They didn’t believe me. How could it have been a nice day without them here to “pamper” me?
“I managed,” I said and let it go at that. Guilt can be a valuable weapon in a mom’s arsenal.
Would I want to spend every Mother’s Day alone? No, of course not. But to spend one whole day doing exactly what I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it was bliss, sheer bliss. After twenty-eight years on the job, I think I deserved it.
