Mother's Day

I loved being a mom.

Not that I was that great at it when I was actively doing it day-by-day, but it was simply the very best job I ever had. The pay was lousy, the hours were long, and in the kind fuzziness of retrospective thinking, yes, I loved every minute I spent with my children.

When they were small, I loved thinking up things to occupy their time and energy. I loved playing board games, singing silly songs, making a game out of every chore, finger plays and bathtime. I loved scavenger hunts in the neighborhood on our daily walks, picking up bits of rock or metal for making collages later, or just to look at and marvel. I loved painting, clay, glue and glitter, and baking. I loved the roadtrips, and the daily routines, the special outings and the quiet of just snuggling together, telling stories or reading.

When they got older, I loved them bringing home their friends to gather around the dinner table.
I loved listening to them postulate, argue, tell jokes and banter. I loved picnics outdoors on sunny days, either away or in our own backyard. I loved working with them in the garden, listening to them whine about how hard it was, and showing them how to fix things or figure things out. I loved teaching them all the things I thought they would need to know.

I did not love myself very much in those years though. I was angry too often, frustrated and self-absorbed. I was often anxious, tired, snappish, scared and depressed. I berated them for their supposed failings, forgetting how that kind of criticism made me feel when I was just learning, just trying my hardest to grow up. I wasn't very patient. I wasn't very kind. Not always, of course, but enough to make me regret now the time I wasted on trivial demands and
unimportant details. I somehow forgot that I would not have them and their company with me always.

Now they are grown up and living independent lives, far away from me. I am so immensely proud of them and grateful that they have turned out to be interesting, creative, self-sufficient people. But on Mother's Day, I wish I could go back in time and do it all again--just this time, do it better. I wish I could do it all over again, this time with the knowledge that it wouldn't last forever, and make every moment a positive one, a generous and giving one.

I know they love me, and I know they probably forgive me for my failings as a parent (or are at least working on that part of becoming adults). The full measure of one's own hubris comes of course when your children have children of their own. After Juli was born, I started calling my mother every day and apologizing--for everything, it seemed. It was my self-imposed penance, and one undertaken with newly-found humility.

So today I reflect on my own mother and my gratitude for who she is and everything she does, loving me with the fierce loyalty and protectiveness that mothers know deep in their bones. And I reflect as well on my children, who created the best part of my life by their existence and their presence. I have so much to be thankful for.