Motherhood Moment

A Moment for Mothers

Did you know that Mothers day was inspired by Julia Ward Howe, a civil war activist as a heartbreaking, united momentous outburst by women everywhere to end war and have peace? I assume she was tired of watching her country’s sons and sons friends killed in action, weary of watching every woman around her sullenly bury their children. A moment to somehow recognize the silent outrage of mothers, sending their offspring into war.

I find it even more intriguing that we only take one day, one moment of calling FTD and eradicate our depreciating credit to remember:
The woman who gave you life(or in some cases gave you a new life),
Perhaps she even:
Held your hand walking across the street
Wiped your butt,
Held your head while you were vomiting,
Made the owie feel better just by kissing it,
Taught you how to sew, salsa, ride a horse, ride a bike, or fish,
Defused battle 999 of sibling world war,
Taught you to drive,
Showed you how to apply cover up on what you considered teenage social death by zit,
Talked you through a friends death,
Stayed up with you and shared a gallon of chunky monkey during your first heartbreak,
Helped you write your college entrance essay; two days before it was due,
Convinced your father that your future husband was really a great catch,
Told you how beautiful you looked even though you had a nasty cold while trying on your wedding dress,
Helped you during your first born’s first weeks, even though you said you didn’t want nor need her there,
Held your broken body through chemo, radiation, and co-collaborating and deceiving your kids into thinking you just “have the flu,”
Helping you through a marriages break up, break down and break apart,
Encouraging you to keep writing even with your first writing rejection letter,
Encouraging you to keep writing even with your eightieth writing rejection letter,
Telling your mother-in-law to “blank-off” because you are perfect, no matter what condition your kitchen is in,
Recognizing your sisterhood into the battle of the bulge and sympathizing with you,

Your many and ongoing triumphs and tears.

I find it very intriguing that we give this Mother’s day holiday credit to a man: President Woodrow Wilson. Though his intentions were good, his National recognition of the day was marked for the boys who died in war. Just a moment, of honoring the biggest sacrifice a mother could ever make.

Shouldn’t we call a spade a spade and say what Mothers day really is? Mother day is a mini-moment for amends, a sad, small attempt for recognition of what is a mother. For some of us, it’s a day to expel our guilt. A day to be thankful, but it’s only a moment. Sadly, our spouses, siblings, offsprings and we ourselves may be guilty of thinking that taking that moment to recognize the mothers in our lives, as one more thing to check off our ever expanding, chaotic list of life. However, as I am learning in my wise-old age, it’s only a moment.

Though truth be told, I usually receive for my mother’s day: Handmade cards made from Cheerios, pink colored flowers that may resemble ducks, or palm trees or money in the form of certificates for hugs, dishes done, and dinners to be made. Though the recognition of my motherhood falls mainly on people in my household with limited spending income, it is the moment of thoughts that really count.

It’s easy for me to slip into nostalgia this time of year: My son was born on Mothers day, he is now twelve (sniff) and instead of a big birthday party with the usual pinata, balloons and a horde of extended families, he just wanted to “hang out with his homies at the park with hotdogs.”
That was the moment I came face to face with my evolving motherhood: I didn't have to buy matching paper plates, goodie bags, nor balloons. Just hotdogs, nerf guns, nerf ammo for the occasional adult nerf target. Most of my friends congratulated me, “You have now entered the zone of no more birthday fuss.” I felt inexplicably sad and useless.
This year, I didn't get to go to the dollar store and pick out matching plates and napkins nor goody prizes or candy for a pinata. This year, I sent my husband to Winco for hot dogs. At the park, the scene of the crime (my son's first birthday was celebrated at Bille Park), my husband took the “homies” on a short hike, I sat on the bench, feeling very alone. I listened the sounds of a sun-drenched park on a perfect Spring afternoon. The family next to us celebrated simultaneous birthdays of granny (age 96) in a walker and baby Gabrielle, her first birthday, also in her walker. Both birthday girls dependant on family members to bring them their cake, juice and help them sit upright. Both birthday girls laughing, a baby glee from Gabrielle as her butterfly balloon floated by her lit face and Granny, chuckled reaction to Gabrielle’s glee.

I remember like it was yesterday (doesn’t that sound like something your mom would say?): My husband throwing our chubby, baby daughter up in the air, her squeals of glee wafting through the gentle waving grass tickling everyone's ears across the playground. Relatives old and young, laughing and enjoying a moment of eating pink roses from birthday cake on matching pink plates and my beautiful daughter, in the first and last dress she ever wore. She’s a tomboy now, hardly putting her beautiful red waves back in a ponytail, let alone wear something feminine. As I fast-forwarded to my sons’ first birthday(I realize with shock that I am sitting at the same table and park bench), I remember Winnie-The-Pooh theme balloons, plates and cake, cousins, grandparents and tonka trucks galore littering the picnic tables as toddlers and adults poured onto the generous lawn to play and romp.

Zip, it’s gone, and I am in the present noticing dammit, I have my first age spot on my left hand. We only have these moments, these ever changing, evolving moments in motherhood. As our children grow up, out and away from us, establishing independance, we have our motherhood moments marked by a tide of change, folding like waves into each other. Choking back my tears, I realize how fast, how fast, they try to tell you, how fast this motherhood goes. I had listened with haughty ears because I was twenty-something, my whole life, family, love pouring out of me, into me and I was a triumphant, ever flowing cup of motherhood. My cup is now full but all too soon it will be empty save for a few cobwebby memories. They will drift through the catacombs of what is left by a miracle of my grey matter. A smell, perhaps of a BBQ, will dance along a spring breeze into my nose, the sound of a baby’s laughter will bounce and register into my deaf ears, the sight of pink roses I will recognize on a cake, the touch of a fuzzy blanket against my paper thin, wrinkled arms, will charge and define an Alzheimer moment of some random memory in my motherhood life. I will only have a nano second to grasp and recognize that fragment of a birthday, family gathering or holiday and then, poof! It will be gone and I will succumb to eating my oatmeal with help and having my Depends changed.
I will just have a moment to remember that I had a fantastic motherhood.

So this Mothers’ day, take a moment, to call, email or better yet, if you can visit your mom or someone close to you who is a mom, is like a mom, or who wants to be a mom, put down your to do list for the day and take a moment for them. It’s only a moment.


All Rights Reserved, Anne Wycoff May 10, 2008