Mother's Day Isn't For Cowards

I hate Mother’s Day. I know hate is a strong word but it’s the right word. It all began years ago when I learned that my mother hated it. I didn’t understand why, until I learned what went on behind the scenes of a typical Mother’s Day in our home. This is what I saw; a Saturday afternoon delivery of flowers followed by us all attending church where the children would get up and sing songs about loving their mothers and the speakers would quote touching thoughts on the divine art of being a mother. Most women, like my mom, would be decked out in macaroni necklaces or tissue-paper corsages. Upon returning home from church, my Dad would wrap his arms around Mom’s waist and ask if he could take us all out to dinner. Mom would then tell him that she already had dinner underway—usually a delicious rack of ribs with several side dishes. I could never understand why she didn’t love that nice day. Then I learned the truth. Mom doesn’t like cut flowers—she never has—she considers them a waste of money and yet, every year, that’s what Dad bought her. Naturally he would charge it on his credit card so that Mom could see just how much money he wasted on her present. She also doesn’t believe in shopping or dining-out on the Sabbath, so eating out was completely out of the question but she also knew that everyone was expecting a nice dinner on such a “special” day so she would spend hours getting the meal together and cleaning up afterward.


Now that I’m a mom, I can totally relate to her hatred of a day for mothers that’s made for everyone except moms. If it was really mother’s day, then I wouldn’t have to clean up the pancake mess my kids made trying to surprise me with breakfast in bed. I would go to church, but I wouldn’t have to be reminded how short I fall when measured against women in the Bible. I would also get to wear my own jewelry—preferably something that doesn’t bleed on my shirt when it starts to rain. If it was really my day, I’d make sandwiches for dinner and I’d get sole custody of the remote control. My husband would take my kids for a bike ride and not even consider asking me to tag along. Then I’d take a long nap while they were gone.

This year for mother’s day, my friends and I planned Saturday night out without husbands or children. I know there were men who were disappointed that they wouldn’t be taking their wives out for pizza and an animated movie to celebrate, but the women were more than happy to break from routine. We ate amazing food that we didn’t have to cook or clean up, we saw a chick flick, and we stayed up way past our kids bedtimes—leaving the men to handle that chore. It was wonderful, and I’m already planning next year’s bash.

When I got home from my night out my husband asked me what I wanted to do for Mother’s Day. I gave him the stink-eye and said, “Absolutely nothing.” Imagine my surprise when he actually listened and gave me my (almost) dream Mother’s Day. I still had to listen to guilt-inducing talks on women of moral character, but when we got home my husband made me a big plate of nachos, tucked me under a blanket on the couch and sat down next to me. “I love you. You’re a great mom,” he said, then he handed me the remote control and asked, “What are we watching?”

I guess I don’t have to hate Mother’s Day anymore.