Mother’s Day was a little different for me this year. During my past decade-plus of Mother’s Days, my general approach, similar to that of many of us who wear these shoes, has been that this is a day for my children and husband to appreciate me. But this year, I decided that I needed to mix it up a little bit.
The truth is my loving-mother self has been sliding a bit lately. As I navigate the waters of middle childhood for both of my boys, now eleven and six, with their myriad of school, sports and musical activities, I seem to be getting a bit overwhelmed by the details. I tend to miss the forest for the trees more than I used to.
And I am starting to get a little bitchy.
Though I am the queen of completing lists, permission slips, laundry and lunches, though I am on top of the schedule of spring concerts, baseball games and piano lessons, though I know exactly when my kids need their lunches packed in brown bags for field trips and when to just pack them in their rapidly-decaying lunchboxes, I have lately found myself to be missing the joy and excitement that this time of year brings. The devil is in the details, and sometimes, there seem to be so many details, that the important stuff goes to hell.
Sure, I have lots of excuses for my demise into bitchiness. I’m tired. I’m peri-menopausal. I have that other job as a doctor, which is pretty consuming. Though I have help on the days I wear my professional hat, and I am married to someone who is an extremely hands-on dad, as the mother in the family, as in most families, I do the lion’s share of figuring out the details of how it’s all going to happen. The list goes on and on about why I should be feeling put out. My Catholic upbringing, or maybe just my entrance into the Club of Motherhood, has made me into a martyr.
Only one month left of school. Only one month left of elementary school, in fact, for my oldest. Next year, he enters the country of middle school, where I will certainly have more limited access. Maybe this is why I am trying to stop myself from feeling like the martyr, and acting like a bitch. What good does it do my kids if I cook them a nice breakfast to get them through a longer morning on the days that they have early band practice, if while I am feeding them, I am yelling and nagging them more than I need to about making sure that they’re ready on time? This style of parenting, which I seem to have temporarily adopted in the setting of detail-induced stress, will in the end only drive them away. And I’m about to enter the phase of parenting when my almost-adolescent will probably start moving away all by himself. Why jump-start this?
Sometimes, I think we mothers go through these periods of martyrdom, when we feel a little sorry for ourselves for how much we have on our plates. Even those of us who came to the table a bit later in life, even those of us who made very definitive choices about joining this club.
So, this Mother’s Day, which was spent at two consecutive baseball games, I tried to focus on the fact that it was a beautiful day and that I was being given the gift of watching my kids run around doing something that they love. I tried not to worry about whether anyone was appreciating me (because I know that they do appreciate me, or at least they will someday). I resolved to be less bitchy, to focus more on the forest, and to remember to be more thankful to just be here, and to have them.
After all, these are the good old days. My kids probably won’t remember whether their mother packed a nutritious snack or got them to band practice on time. They likely won’t remember the tiny details that I spend so much energy on, those individual trees. What they will remember, however, is the forest.