On my very first Mother’s Day, I was three and a half weeks pregnant. Anyone who knows fertility (and infertility) and the bizarre world of pregnancy dating knows that a woman who is three and a half weeks pregnant doesn’t even KNOW she is pregnant yet. But I knew. It was about a week after my IVF, and I was gardening in the backyard. I dug holes to plant a new rose of Sharon and five lilies, and I became so overcome with that little exertion that I laid down on the grass, on my back, and looked up through the green of my maple tree to the blue sky above, and felt nearly faint with exhaustion. And that Sunday afternoon, Mother’s Day, I wondered if I was suddenly very tired for a very good reason. And I felt happy. By Monday I was debating baby names, though it wasn’t until Wednesday that I peed on a stick and got the two pink lines that I’d begun to think might never, never appear.
On my second Mother’s Day, I was the very very content mother of a four month old baby girl, and I let said baby nap on my chest, nursing in her sleep, as I reveled in the joy of my first, official, Mother’s Day. We’d gone to church that morning, and all the mothers had been asked to stand up, and the Sunday school kids came through to give us cards they’d made. I’d teared up with joy at finally being part of the mom’s club, though I couldn’t help but think about all the would-be moms in the congregation who were still waiting to become moms, still doing fertility treatments, or who’d already given up on the dream. Though perhaps they didn’t leave the house on Mother’s Day.
On my third Mother’s Day … well, I don’t remember. We’d just moved into a new house, so I might have been unpacking. My fourth Mother’s Day, we were in another new house, and I was probably stressing about the non-existent nursery for baby #2, due four weeks hence. I don’t recall marking the day with anything special.
And this year? Well, on my first Mother’s Day as a single mother of two, we’ll do the same old things. Eating, and cleaning, and church, and playing. No doubt some laundry. The baby is pulling everything off of everything, so there will probably be some tidying up, or at least a lot of stepping over the mess. A typical day in the life of a happy mom. Unmarked by her two children, who at 3 years old and 10 months old, are too young to make Mother’s Day cards, or buy flowers, or serve breakfast in bed. Or even be aware that this is a special day for moms, and that they, as the children, are supposed to be supporting Hallmark or the local florist with their piggybank pennies. Hmmm, note to self: buy the children piggy banks so they will eventually be able to buy me presents.
Every year in the Single Mothers by Choice community, the topic of Mother’s Day gets discussed. How can we mark the day when our children are too young to honor us, and there is no spouse to prompt expressions of love. No partner to help the preschooler spread jam on toast and carry it on a tray upstairs, where Mama is trying in vain to feign sleep and surprise. No school teacher to instruct on homemade paper flowers and crayoned cards. Though perhaps they don’t do that in school any more. I half-hope they don’t, considering Father’s Day will prompt only awkwardness in my fatherless children.
Among my SMC friends, the celebration of Mother’s Day has no norm. Some of us treat ourselves – to a meal out, a special coffee, a spa treatment, a babysitter. Some make it a day to do something extra special with our children – a zoo trip, a picnic, all-day pajamas or dessert first. Others insist every day is Mother’s Day, because they waited so long, or endured so many fertility treatments, that all they can do on such a day is be thankful they are finally here. A few send Mother’s Day cards to each other, or ask family members to do it, so that they feel remembered even though their children are too young to know it is a special day. A few remain mostly silent, waiting for an adoption match, or the next round of lupron injections, mutely wondering if they’ll ever celebrate the day.
On my fifth Mother’s Day, I find myself grasping for a tradition. Being the head of a household of me and two tiny tots means I get to set the standard for every holiday. It is up to me to decide whether we have turkey or ham on Thanksgiving, wear green or not on St. Patrick’s Day, carve Jack o’Lanterns on Hallowe’en. When Mother’s Day dawns, I have the power to create a custom for our house, whereby Mom gets to … hmmm. Or whereby the giggling children have to … uhhh. We did just decorate a card and put it in the mail for Grandma, for Mother’s Day. I could set out the supplies, drop very very clear hints to the 3 year old, and hope a card materializes for me. “Sweetie,” I could say, “Good girls make something nice for their moms on Mother’s Day. Do you want to be a good girl? I bet your mommy would like something for Mother’s Day.”
But no. That’s not really me. As hokey as it sounds, I really do just enjoy the day privately, in my own head, knowing it is a day I almost didn’t get to celebrate. Knowing that there were Mother’s Days throughout my 20s and 30s when I would send my own mother a card in the mail, while wondering if I’d ever receive one myself. Now that I am a mom, I can wait. I can wait for my girls to grow up and get sucked in by Hallmark. I can wait until they are excited by the day, and scheming together to surprise me with something, to agonize with their allowance in hand before a glass figurine and a fresh flower. Slippers or tea towels? I can wait for the day when they try to bake something, or make something, or buy something. For the day when they complain, as preeteens, that there is never a Children’s Day. For the day they send their first Mother’s Day card in the mail, because they have moved away for their first big job. And the day when they forget about me because it is THEIR first Mother’s Day as secretely pregnant women, and they are obsessing about baby names and ultrasounds. For the day when I get my first homemade card from my grandchildren, saying Happy Mother’s Day, Grandma. I can wait. For all of it. For dozens of Mother’s Days in the future. I can’t wait.