Mother's Day

It seems like just yesterday we used to shower my mom with home made cards, macaroni art and gifts my dad we purchased just for her. We used to try to make her day so special and she'd always respond in the same way, with thanks and hugs, but I always felt she wasn't fully accepting of the importance of her role in our lives, of the macaroni gifts. I mean who doesn't deserve construction paper macaroni art? She appreciated it, don't get me wrong, but she always said Mother's Day was for her mom. I never quite understood. 

Each year since Sam was born, four years ago, I'd been excited having been freshly inducted into the Mother's Day celebration. I'd never turn my nose up at another day to receive gifts. I mean really, but this Mother's Day was different. I woke up hopeful that another day would unfold in our household: chaos, feedings, gifts, chaos, breakfast, macaroni art, coffee, feedings, gifts, chaos, hugs, chaos, bedtime, gifts. I like our routine no matter how chaotic and no matter how many gifts, but instead I awoke thinking less about the gifts piled beneath my Mother's Day tree (kidding) and more about my mom, and less about me being a mom. Holy crap I'm a mom?! 

Sure, I have my own children now, THREE OF THEM, but the love I have for my mom and the heartbreak I have for being so far away, was placed beneath a holiday pressure on Sunday the likes of which could create Mother's Day diamonds. Wait for it DeBeers. "How can I possibly show her  in just one day, from so far away how much I love her and how much I appreciate her?" Impossible. I couldn't even seem to get her on the phone.  So instead of fully embracing each moment of the chaos on Sunday I withdrew, missing my mom and simultaneously wondering how so seemingly overnight, I'd gone from here:

My baptism circa 1980. My mom, tiny me and my grandma Eve, Clementine Eve's namesake.

Mom and I, Wallowa Lake, OR. 

Thumper and I. (Do not  you dare look directly into my bermuda shorts.)

To here:

Surely I fell asleep somewhere in that kiddie pool filled with wild geometric patterns, saddle shoes and rabbits and awoke in my mom's shoes. Both of us suddenly the same just 30 years apart victims of the same joy, the same chaos and sheer wreckless abandon that driving on the Autobahn, in a mini van, at speeds well in excess of 100 miles per hour, blindfolded, with one hand on the wheel and the other grabbing for lost snack traps and replacing pacifiers affords. I've always appreciated my mom, but words can not begin to describe how I appreciate her now.

And I DO feel the same now, as she did then about Mother's Day and now I understand. I accept the crayon drawings of me beneath a flower garden, "because I didn't know how to draw you above it," and the macaroni art. And I am thankful, because these kids make me a mom and they make me an amazingly happy mom, but I am not worthy, not yet. Not in the way that my Grandma or Grandmama was when I was a kid and the way that my mom is now.  For now, I am not ready to take off my mom training wheels and ride out into the main road by myself on my banana seat bike on Mother's day. For now Mother's Day is for my mom. I shall continue to practice with my mom's hand on the back of my parenting bike and one day when I know I've practice long enough and that I've turned three small people into loving, well mannered, open-minded and caring citizens of the world, I'll celebrate, wheels off.

...but this year while all the littles celebrated me, I quietly celebrated you. Cheers to you mom.  Next year we're going BIG, together.