Momma Drama

Several years ago, roughly the second Sunday in May, I called my Mom.  I think my intention was to wish her a happy Mother's Day but somehow I ended up crying to her on the phone about how much I hated Mother's Day (which is bad news in an of itself because I'm a really ugly crier.  I mean REALLY ugly).  I told her how depressing it was to have to listen to stories of one supermom after another in church.  I told her that I wished my kids could go this one day without fighting.  Just this ONE.  I went on an on about how whoever came up with Mother's Day couldn't have been a mother herself because it is without a doubt the most exasperating day of the year.  To my everlasting shame I said all of this.  To my mom.  On Mother's Day.  Because apparently everything is always about me.  I dub myself the valedictorian of selfish pricks.  But my mom listened and even acted like she felt my imaginary pain.  And then she said something that has stuck with me ever since.  She told me that one time on Mother's Day when she was a young mother herself, she called her mom complaining about the very same thing.  Her mom listened patiently and then replied, "I guess I've always thought of Mother's Day as an opportunity to honor my own mother".  If I could have simply erased myself from existence at that moment I probably would have.  I still can't believe that I went so many years thinking that somehow Mother's Day was a time for my kids and my husband to walk around like creepy little mc-creepersons patching up my insecurities.  I vowed that from then on I would take my sweet grandmother's advice.  Mother's day would be about honoring my mother.  And maybe about getting some pretty flowers or a necklace or a new dust buster.  But... whatever.  Hello?  Honey?  Are you reading this???

Best grandma?  Peanut Baby votes yes.

My mom isn't only my mom.  She's my friend.  Even when my life has the balance of an egg on a countertop, she doesn't judge.  She listens.  She advises only when warranted  but reminds me that I'm the one who has to navigate my way through this life.  And when that previously mentioned egg ends up on the floor in a giant goopy mess, she helps me think of all the reasons why it's not the end of the world.  Then she stays up all night worrying about me.  Because that weird thing that causes mothers to feel their children's pain never really goes away.

I get a knot in my chest when I watch her with her grandchildren.  She simply has a way with them.  No song and dance necessary.  She sees qualities in them that sometimes we as their parents seem to overlook.  I love how much she loves them and embraces their uniqueness.  She's always been able to see beauty in thing that other people don't take the time to notice. She's totally that person that would go to an animal shelter and take home the dog that was missing a leg, an ear, and 1/2 it's tongue.  Or the dog who sleeps  in a buzzy chair and wants to procreate with a stuffed lama.  Oh wait...she already has that dog.  See?  Unique. It's her thing.

My mom is strong and she's wise.  She values her role as a mother.  And she knows how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie pop (not really, but that sentence just flowed well).  She accepts me for who I am and encourages me to become the person I want to be (she's hoping the person I want to become doesn't have a blog).  She tells me frequently that she thinks I'm a good mother.  And even though I beg to differ, there's no greater compliment I could receive from her.

Happy Mother's Day to the woman who has dealt with me for 32 long years.  Hang in there,  I'll grow up eventually.  Maybe.  Probably not.

I love you.