The Bigger Picture

Matt and I have built our own family traditions around Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Instead of scrambling to find the appropriate gift, we try to just create space for each other to have the “perfect” day -- the “If you could fill today with your favorite things, what would it look like?” kind of day. I can tell you right now that for Matt, his perfect day will generally include a good hike, some good beer, and possibly a trip to Easy Street Records, which is why I can already tell you that we’ll probably get up really early on Father’s Day to head to West Seattle for brunch before the crowds hit (Easy Street has a pretty great brunch, and if you show up mid-morning you’ll be waiting a good long while) and then head to the mountains.

For the past couple of years, Mother’s Day has included a Mother’s Day tea at church, pho for lunch, a nap, a trip to the Elliott Bay Book Company, and dinner at Veggie Grill. Matt leads the kids in making cards and breakfast, and he usually takes the kids somewhere else while I browse the bookstore (and, yes, buy a few books), order a glass of white wine from the cafe, and read or write for an hour or two. That was my day today, and if that becomes our Mother’s Day tradition forever, I certainly will not complain.

So that’s our little family snapshot. But I’ve been thinking about the bigger picture of Mother’s Day, too.

I’ve always been a little puzzled by the vehemence with which some women proclaim that they raise their own children, thank you very much. (This often occurs in the context of some tiresome “stay at home” vs. “working” mother nonsense on the internet that, frankly, none of us should have any time for.) Because I’ll tell you what, I raise my children with a whole lot of help -- which is the way it should be. I emphatically believe we were not meant to do this alone. I’ve been thinking about this a lot today. If I thought I had to go it alone, I’d be so much more mentally ill than I probably already am.

I’m grateful on Mother’s Day, for so many reasons.

The obvious reasons are the ones who burst into my room this morning. One of them wept bitterly when I emerged from the bedroom instead of sitting in bed waiting for my English muffin and eggs and coffee, because she wanted me to have breakfast in bed. But her daddy explained that we don’t have a very good tray for delivering breakfast in bed, and also breakfast wasn’t ready yet. She pulled herself together to help crack the eggs over a pan.

When Matt asked her little brother to come and help with Mommy’s breakfast, he replied, “I don’t want to. You do it.” But he did make me a lovely Mother’s Day card. In fact, I overheard this heartwarming exchange before I got out of bed...

Isaac: This is Mommy. And this is Mommy’s blood!
Matt: Isaac! What? That’s not nice!
Isaac: Just kiddin’! I’m using Mommy’s red pen. It’s her mouth. Actually, she has two mouths.

The takeaway is obviously that four-year-olds can be very creepy. It’s also pretty easy to overlook such creepiness when the same four-year-old, five minutes later, wraps his arms around your neck and plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek.

Anyway, the bigger picture, for me, is gratitude for the community in which I am raising my children, for the other mother-figures whose influence in my children’s lives matters so much. For my own mother, who has loved me in ways I probably never understood before I had my own children, who has been my biggest cheerleader and best teacher. For my mother-in-law, who raised a son to be a wonderful partner and a wonderful father. For my sister-in-law, who lives only a few minutes away and who my children take completely for granted right now because they are so secure in her love, and who will be the person my children run to as teenagers when they decide I am cruel and unfair and horrible. (Their auntie will take my side, obviously, because I will be right, but she will be a safe place of unconditional love.) For my friends who love my children, whether or not they have children themselves, who are patient and kind and loving and don’t mind having lunch with me, kids in tow, who don’t mind fingerprints on their phones and constant tugging at their sleeves and occasional bouts of terrible manners. For the daycare provider who has loved and cared for both of my children since babyhood, who has convinced them to eat food I could never sell, and who is probably singlehandedly responsible for their potty-training. For my children’s teachers, at church and at school, who have known and loved and encouraged them. For the babysitters who have willingly engaged in bursts of unrestrained silliness and made my children feel important. For the mothers with more experience than I have, who remind me to be my own friend, who put the messiness of this whole endeavor into perspective when I need it most.

The point of Mother’s Day, I think, is not to lie around while people lavish me with flowers and jewelry because I have children; for me, it is to honor the community that cares for my children and me, the mothers and mother-figures, the friends, the family, the sisterhood of women who are in this life together.