I detest Mother’s Day, always have. Perhaps because, from early childhood, I was pressured into lauding a woman (my own mother) about whom I had mixed emotions. My own adult daughter called me earlier this morning, the second Sunday in May which greedy floral shops and card manufacturer’s promote shamelessly, to wish me a “Happy Mother’s Day.” My lackluster response should have prompted her to terminate the phone call, yet she persisted in knowing the source of my obvious discomfiture. Some things are best left unsaid; at least then, the words don’t hang in the air to reverberate ad infinatum. She is living in a way about which I disapprove. She doesn’t understand that unconditional love does not equate to unconditional approval. She has had opportunities I never had, encouragement and devotion which I never experienced… yet she has chosen a path of self destruction which I don’t understand. I not only don’t understand, I don’t see how she can blindly go down the slope of mediocrity and almost shiftlessness without catching herself on the brink and hauling herself back onto solid footing.
Oh, wouldst this day simply get itself over with soon? Oh, wouldst these thoughts of mine swirling intrusively within my consciousness simply dissipate into more positive thinking?
I detest Mother’s Day.