Dear Readers,
Every mother is a child of another mother. It’s a song on repeat.
It’s Mother’s Day. I have created a nest for myself in my bed. My bedroom isn’t pretty, it’s barely functional. But I love my mattress and my sheets and my duvet (Tuft & Needle, Brooklinen and Buffy, respectively. I am walking proof of the power of social media ads and NPR stories). I love that all I can see out the top of the windows are leaves from the tree out front. I have everything I need in arms reach—multiple books, an iPad, a hard seltzer, and some chips and avocado salsa. Can we talk about this salsa???
I snagged it during an epic Costco trip yesterday. I’ve managed to get my Costco trips down to once every 8 weeks or more by focusing on staples that last. At some point, these beauties caught my eye and I justified it by thinking “they’re shelf-stable” which is what I tell myself when I know I should probably just stick to the plan and not get impulsive. But I got impulsive. Because I love guac-salsa. So now I have three giant jars if you want to come over and have some.
Like many moms, I am taking the day to do whatever I please. I ate three fancy donuts at church. I bought myself some books. I napped. But Mother’s Day is complicated because mothers are complicated. I tend to stay off social media on days like today because I’m not good at resisting automatic comparisons of life. I hopped on to Facebook at some point and got hightailed out of there. It was a mashup of heartfelt novels to moms and moms complaining about the lack of fanfare they received from their families. None of it makes me feel good, so I let those folks have their space and I move along.
I don’t begrudge anyone who loves so big and so hard they want to post it all over the place. I am jealous of it. I am a chronic oversharer, it’s basically my brand, so who am I to judge? I just want it so badly, I can’t be around it. It’s like how sometimes I can’t even listen to “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” because I get mad that nobody wrote a song like that about me. It’s ridiculous, I know.
I got punched in the stomach the other day. Not literally, but it felt like an OOMPH right in the gut. Lucky for me, I seem to have a really visceral reaction to realizations. What a blessing to be running down the street, minding your own business, and then all of a sudden have to stop and put your hands on your knees like a weirdo to find your breath. (<—- That was all sarcasm, if it didn’t translate.)
I had a vision of my son’s girlfriend. I barely even know what she looks like, but I saw her in my mind. I saw my son, and I saw in one instant his whole person—not just his beautiful teenage face, but all the gravitational force around him. I saw his charm, which he can wield for good or bad so easily. I saw the joy on his face when I like a song he plays for me I’ve never heard before. I saw the way his eyes disappear a little from me when he is retreating. I saw how hard I have been on him, how every word out of my mouth some days is drenched in disappointment and criticism. I thought about how I feel constantly criticized some days, and the weight it puts on my chest. I saw the time he walked into the room as a small toddler, when I was nursing his newborn sister. I was exhausted and my whole body ached and milk was dripping all over the place. He walked straight for me with a toy truck in his hand and full-force hit me in the face with it. I instinctively and without thinking slapped him on his little round cheek. Hard. We stared at each other for what felt like a full minute. Then we both started bawling. I’ve never forgotten that day. I remember every detail, and I still feel a deep shame about it.
I saw my son and I saw how hurt he must be that his own mom isn’t interested in getting to know his girlfriend. This girl has stuck around through a pandemic and multiple long-term discipline lockdowns. Clearly, she loves my son in their own teenage way. I have unfairly blamed the idea of her for my son’s impulsive and short-sighted decisions. I have judged her because she is two years older than he is, because she isn’t in college, because she doesn’t have a car… the list is long, and the list is stupid. I am slapping him in the face all over again by refusing to open my heart.
I got punched in the stomach when I remembered that this girl… she lost her mom. I couldn’t recall whether her mom died, or whether she left, but I knew that she was motherless. I cried right there on the bridge over the freeway. Maybe she loved that my son was anchored in a family. Maybe he helped her work out her life. Maybe my mothering was somehow trickling down to this teenage romance in a way that God knew she needed. Maybe I could do more.
In the car that night when I was taking my son to work, I apologized for being so hard on his relationship. I told him that it was wrong, and I bit my tongue every time I wanted to justify my behavior with “I’m just looking out for you!” or “I don’t want you to make mistakes like I did!” I asked if one day I could take them both out for dinner. He told me that his girlfriend would be so excited, that she worried all the time I didn’t like her.
“I can’t dislike her. I don’t even know her,” I said, “Somehow that feels worse.”
It wasn’t until a few days later, in the shower, that the full impact of that gut-punch came to me. Showers are my ground zero for realizations. I heard a clear voice say to me:
“Your own mom is motherless too.”
My mom lost her mom when I was about 8 or 9. My mom has been navigating parenting motherless for the majority of my life. My grandmother was complicated, as was my relationship with my own mom. She was 20 when I was born—still quite a child herself. I blamed my mom for too long for a lack of boundaries. I craved someone to tell me “treat yourself better, demand more of others, don’t settle.” But how can we expect women to make their way without a guide? It’s like fumbling in the dark, doing your best not to trip, reaching out your hands to find the light switch. My mom is a woman trying to do her best, just like the rest of us. I sit in church every week and nod along when we talk about grace. I give it freely to people who have hurt me, I give it to myself for all the hurt I’ve caused. And yet I’ve always stopped short with my own mom. It felt like a wound that would never heal and I just let it sit there. I compartmentalized that anger and packed it away.
One of my most vivid memories of my mom was one Christmas, when I was very young. Santa brought me a makeup set that had about 100 pieces. It folded out into a glorious little vanity with a mirror and everything. Except, the makeup was all plastic. It was fake. I looked up and saw a slight sadness cross her face when she realized that it wasn’t real makeup. She said something like “oh, I think Santa thought it was real. I’m sorry.” I assured her I loved it, and the thing is I actually did. I had a very active imagination and all I wanted to do was stare at all the pretty pieces and play pretend. I didn’t care that it was fake, because to my little mind it wasn’t important. No matter how much I played up my excitement, she still looked embarrassed. My parents didn’t have a lot of money, and presents meant something. I knew that even then. I always knew too much, took on too much worry about grown-up things, listened as they talked about bills late at night. I told her I loved it, and all I wanted her to do was believe me.
I’ve returned to that memory often as a mom myself. I think about how she felt, and I want to go back in time as an adult and hug her so hard. I want to transport myself back to that motherless mother and tell her it’s all going to turn out OK. I want to tell her the things I tell myself when I feel like I’m failing at everything—”Breathe. Love on them harder. Love yourself harder. You’re doing the best you know how.”
It’s not too late for us. One day soon, I will go home and tell my mom all of this before I no longer have the chance. This is not an overnight transformation, but I know all about baby steps.
My kids got me a gift today—a hand-painted wine glass and some flowers and soaps. What they don’t know is that the real gifts were the tiny things that happened this morning that felt like signs from all the moms who’ve gone before me. Like when my daughter served with me at church this morning and came over during a particularly meaningful moment to whisper in my ear. Thinking she was going to say something sweet, she instead pointed out how (in her words) “FOINE” a man was who just walked in. What a gift that she tells me those things. Or when I was driving my son to work and he told me that more people die in Gender Reveals than Shark Attacks. Or when my youngest son texted my boyfriend about a dead bird in our basement instead of me, so as not to interrupt my “me-time”. These are the signs from the universe that we’re going to be just fine.
Instead of going straight home from dropping my son at work, I took the long way home. I needed a little more time today. I rolled down the window and let my hair get wild. I turned on some Usher loud enough to make my singing sound real good. I sang Confessions Part II at the top of my lungs and I think I hit all the falsetto. I thanked God for all the women who’ve mothered me and all the love I have to give.
Here are some more good things for the week:
Yet another book recommendation
We had the pleasure of hearing from Dr. Caroline Leaf this morning at church. She is legit—a scientist and a woman of Faith. That’s just my cup of tea. Her husband ran her merch booth, which I found very endearing. A lot of her work is stuff I used to teach in courses on oppression and health outcomes—how connections and love can heal generational trauma. Grab this book.
A whole lot of noise
I purged myself of a bunch of subscriptions last week. It felt like a very valuable Spring Cleaning exercise. But I also added a subscription to this app that has totally amped up my productivity. It’s called Endel and there’s some science to it, or something, but really I’m just a total sucker for any sort of productivity noises that are linked to your heart rate and the weather.
My dog’s diploma
Sonny went to Dog Day Care for the first time last week, because I think she needs some more friends. She passed her first day and she got a diploma. I put it on the fridge.
Adrian in Savannah
Peloton has some new cinema-quality scenic rides where coaches guide you through cities that mean a lot to them. I took nearly a full week off of working out after my trail race, and this was the most pleasant way to get back to it.
This verse
I hope this week brings you so much love.
xo,
Sarah
The long way home
ugh. I love you. And your kids will always love the beautiful mom that you are.
I should not have read this at work. This is beautiful!