It's Mother's Day. So What?

Every day is mother's day to mothers.

Image from the midwinter issue of Pictorial Review Magazine, 1920, Courtesy of The Old Design Shop

It has happened. I’ve finally had my fill of Mother’s Day. It’s not that I have anything against mothers. Good god no. I’ve been one myself since 1957. Seriously. My daughter is that old, and my son and youngest daughter aren’t far behind.

Let it be known that in almost all of that time I’ve loved being a mom. Almost. There were times I wanted nothing more than to turn back the clock and use better birth control—or any at all, considering the work we went through to have those last two—but over all, over the many, many years, I’ve managed to shut out those moments when I cried into my pillow or threatened murder and mayhem if it didn’t stop!

I have a tendency to only remember the good times, which is incredibly helpful when you’re as old as I am. Also, it’s far more pleasant. Such a waste of time to remember those times when pee and poop and barf were the expected norm. And jesus, cloth diapers. And those teen years…

Today my three kids and my three grandkids will call to wish me a happy Mother’s Day. They don’t need to. I just saw all of them as they helped me in one massive way or another in my move off of the island and into my new apartment. I loved them all for it. I can’t thank them enough. I wish I could convince them that today is just another fine day in a row of days that so far, unexpectedly, seem to be working out for me. (Knock on wood.)

None of it is happening because I’m a mom, though I’ll carry that title with me to my last days, and my children will speak of me as ‘Mom’ until their last days. (Kindly, I hope.) Now that I’m not the complete and total caretaker of little ones who may or may not be the precious angels I’d envisioned, I’m so much more than somebody’s mom. I’m a real person!

Not that being somebody’s mom isn’t pretty damned special to me. On every day, in every way. Which makes this particular day just another day. For me.

To every mom who looks forward to celebrating this day, hi there! If this particular Sunday means something special to you, ignore anything I’ve said here. In fact, pretend you didn’t even read this far. This is not meant to rain on your parade. There’s plenty of that on every other day!

For those who feel as I do—special every day because, hey, on top of everything else, we’re MOMS—solidarity!

To those who are moms or have had moms from hell and would just like to forget the whole thing, then do that. Just forget the whole thing. You don’t need anyone’s permission.

To those of you who aren’t moms and maybe won’t ever be, I’ll bet you didn’t even read this. I don’t blame you. Carry on, luvs. It’s only one day for us. Tomorrow it’ll be something else.

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