Think of your birth day - not your Birthday, that once a year anniversary, but, the day you were born.
We were each of us, welcomed into the world with screams and blood. By someone who was willing to endure that kind of agony.
Later in life, maybe, she failed to come to your school plays, didn't like your new girlfriend/boyfriend, hated the clothes you chose for yourself. But I'm convinced that if you could, like Scrooge, leave your own body and see your past, especially your birth, you'd gain a new respect. And you'd do a hell of a lot more for her in summer camp than make her a bookmark and a hell of a lot more for her on Mother's Day than take her to Denny's.
But, c'mon - in your teens, you must have wasted your time on some real twerps; your momma knew that. She may have forbid you to see that new person, may have let you see that person knowing full well that you'd learn a lesson, but either way - did she not care about what happened to you? No. One momma wished to spare you the harm, the other wished you the harm (like she wished you the chicken pox) so you'd have done with that unavoidable life lesson and move on. She knew it could not be avoided. Both cared.
(Sure there are toxic mothers. Family court is full of them. But they're not the usual. Most mothers mean nothing but good, The Angry Man believes.)
My momma?
I'm not much easier on September 16, 2011 than I was on that same date in 1963. I don't cry as much but I complain as much and I still can't sleep the night through. I'm also still easily distracted by shiny, jingly things and believe every body function is cause for celebration. Not much progress.
Still - I've surrendered one infantile value judgment, and that is, that my momma lives to serve me. Scream and be served! Weep, and you shall receive! Mom taught me otherwise when I started sniveling at the age of 9 because I wanted a newt from the fishstore. She told me that sniveling would ruin my chances of ever getting that newt, and that lesson was a far bigger gift than the newt itself. (I behaved as instructed, earned the newt, and it died overnight.)
If, now that I'm newly 48, my momma dreads my phone calls of misery and angst and doom, she doesn't show it. I do try to spare her here and there; if I have a tragedy on a Friday I may wait all weekend to tell her. Other times, when I need to hear the most tolerant and comforting voice I've ever known , I can't help but call. She's got caller-ID now, but has never used it. That's my momma.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
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