The Mother's Load

I first became a mother in the latter part of April, which meant I discovered fairly quickly that Mothers' Day would be my favorite Hallmark holiday.

Three years earlier, I had gotten married on Mothers' Day weekend. My own mother had thought my scheduling to be rather rude and selfish. Not as rude and selfish as my decision to marry a Catholic, but still, up there. I was forcing people to be out of town on that most sacred of days. As it turns out, as is always the case, my mother had a point. One of her friends returned home to New York that Sunday just in time to see her own ailing mother before she passed away. I am grateful, to this day, that the weather was perfect and there were no flight delays.

In the twenty-nine years since my Mothers' day wedding, in the twenty-six years since I have been on both the receiving and giving end of Mothers' day Hallmark sentiments, I have always cherished this weekend of pink ribbons and well-intentioned but unimaginative bouquets and always welcome chocolate (of the decadent milk variety, please). But the celebration has been tempered, on occasion, by loss and a fair share of mixed emotions.

This is only the third year on which I will be unmarried -- and, as it happens, without even so much as a prospect on the horizon for a Saturday night date -- on my wedding anniversary. Pretending the occasion no longer exists simply because the promises have officially been broken and repudiated never really works. This year, I marked the occasion with a brief phone call to my ex. I even got him to admit that, as ex-wives go, I could be far worse. Well, not so much admit it but acquiesce by his silence. In my book, that's a win.

I remember Mothers Day 1998 better than most. By then, I had three children, had earned more than an average share of Mothers' Day homage. I had busied myself the day before with my children's activities. Plays, soccer, an outpouring of requests by each one -- except for the almost two year old -- for me to be in several different places at once, or, in essence, for me to have to choose my favorite. I was distracted that weekend. A thousand miles away, my father was in the end stages of cancer. My mother was terrified. I found little Waterford vases filled with fake flowers at a department store at the mall. I purchased one for my mom and put it in my carry-on. I was abandoning my husband on our wedding anniversary, abandoning my children on Mothers' Day, just to go see my dying father and the broken pieces of my mother. I felt selfish. My husband booted me out the door. He occasionally had some good instincts

The Waterford vase still sits on my mother's dresser. My father slipped away the next day, when I was already back home. He knew to wait until I arrived back in Chicago safely; he waited for my call, and only then felt ready to begin the process of dying. The real process, I mean. Not the slow march that had become a little quicker in the last few months, but the end game. My guess is he might have been able to talk, say a few words, but he chose not to. What, after all, could he say? My mother held the phone to his ear while I told him I loved him. He heard me, I know, and then he went away.

For a long time, I regretted not staying in New York just one more day. I was thirty-eight, then, and I still had a lot to learn. My father had been a parent a lot longer than I had, and he wasn't going anywhere until he knew I was back with my own children, reassuring them I was still there. I may have felt as if I had been cut off at the knees, but he knew I would be all right.

My baby was napping, and my older two arrived home from school about a half hour after the phone call. They burst into the house with the relief that comes from knowing that Mom was back home, that everything was back to where it should be. We settled into a group hug. "Grandpa died," I told them as they loosened their grasp. They burst into tears, for about thirty seconds anyway. "But can we still go to the park?" At first, I was taken aback. Then I laughed. They didn't seem all that disappointed about going to the airport. After all, we would be together, and, back in those days, that was usually the point.

On Mothers' Day this weekend, I will be walking with at least one of my children, as I have for many years, to raise money for all the "pink" cancers, the ones that take mothers and wives and daughters away long before anybody is ready. Not that anybody is ever ready. I will remember, as I always do, the bright pink "housedress" I bought with my own money on a long ago Mothers' Day, a whimsical little garment my mom wore for years after that, until the pocket with the flower appliqués was hanging by a thread and the once robust fabric had been laundered to a paper thin translucency. My fashionable mother always looked most beautiful to me when she wore that housedress. I will remember the Waterford crystal vase with the fake flowers that I brought her the day before I lost my father and she lost her lifelong partner.

I will remember my very first Mothers' Day as a mother, when my husband and I walked to the zoo with our brand new baby tucked into her brand new pastel yellow stroller, completely ignorant of what this all meant. I will remember, too, my wedding day. Not with fondness or bitterness or anything other than pure nostalgia, and a bit of amusement when I think about how I never would have guessed how life would turn out. I will remember how the idea of being a mother was just about the furthest thing from my mind that day. I will remember how I worried that my mother's friend Judy would not make it home to New York in time to see her mother again. If I had known, then, what it means to be a mother, I would have known Judy's mother would do everything in her power to wait. I will remember how I have always felt a bit indebted to Judy's mother for at least taking my own mother's mind off the fact I was marrying a Catholic.

Happy Mothers' Day to all the wonderful mothers I have known, the women in my life who have taught me so much. Most importantly, happy Mothers' Day to my own mother, the woman who knows best how to drive me insane but who always, unconditionally, has my back. The strong and smart and resilient woman whom, as different as we are, I can only hope to emulate when it comes to things that really count.

And happy Mothers' Day to me. My favorite and most well-earned Hallmark holiday. Hold the ditties, hold the flowers. My three children, the fine people they have become, that is my gift. Okay, a phone call would be nice. And I'm not gonna lie -- milk chocolate is always welcome.