Happy Mother’s Day

                I went to my mom’s house today only because I had to.  I didn’t want to.  I felt guilty because I hadn’t been there in a long time, and my Catholic guilt is more powerful than most drugs.  But because I am passive-aggressive, I challenged her to an intellectual dual when she randomly stated that Obama is a fanatical Muslim who is slowly stripping her of her constitutional rights.  I asked her for proof – she didn’t have any at her disposal.  I asked for her sources – she said email messages.  I asked her how this shifty president was different than any other pandering politician – she didn’t have details.  She lost.  But because it was my mother, and it’s Mother’s day, I lost too, because arguing makes me a bitch. 

                My husband made me breakfast this morning before he went to work.  I didn’t get up, because it’s the weekend and I was tired.  I had to get up for a football game yesterday really early, and I just wanted to sleep in one day of the week.  He tried to wake me up twice after he made breakfast, brewed coffee, and had mimosas prepped.  I didn’t get up until he was gone.  I guess that makes me a bitch too.

                My question is this:  why do I have to pander to other people, when I, too, am a mother?  Why do other people have power over me on this day which is supposed to be my own?  Because none of my days are really my own.  Every day of my life is really about someone else:  children, parents, husband, students.  It’s never about me.  That’s why my Utopian delusion is to be alone on a beach – and it’s a delusion because motherhood would never allow me to leave them.  The measure of love for your child is greater than the love of self in every way.  I would cut off my limbs for them if they asked.  And they ask, all the time, they just don’t realize that what they ask for in little pieces every single day adds up to more than I have.  They bankrupt me financially, yes, but emotionally too.  They take and take and take, and they forget to give back.  The “thank you, mom” construction paper is cute, but it took two minutes to make, and it means infinitely less than actually helping me in some context.  Picking up their shit would be the best Mother’s Day gift ever, but no one did it today or any other day (unless there is a threat involved). 

                Motherhood is beautiful and painful and thankless and inspiring and … well, indescribable with useless adjectives.  You don’t know what it’s like until you’re a parent, and then you spend the rest of your life trying to come to terms with how much you took advantage of your parents and understand how to deal with the fact that your children are doing it to you.  The cute little Hallmark card is great, but the official holiday of “Mother’s Day” is just another way for capitalist societies to market love.  I don’t want to be relegated to a mandated calendar date.  I would just like my children to appreciate me and give back every once in a while.  Love is back and forth, even with children.  My heart has been on my sleeve every day for 21 years.  Each child introduces another way to make me happy and to break my heart. 

                And to add a little pressure, my relationship with my children will affect all their other relationships with other people.  My children will see their parents’ fucked-up, dysfunctional relationship and wonder. 

                I just want them to be happy.  To be happier than me.  To make better choices.  To make more money.  To find true love.  To never be hurt, ever.  And I know that most of that is unrealistic, but it’s what I want for them.  Having children changes everything about every day.  It’s good and bad.  It’s happy and sad.  It just is.