Mother's Day, 2009

She was awoken much too early by the almost 7 year old boy she let sleep in her bed last night because he wanted to have a “sleep-over,” which meant that the too early morning came after a night of being kicked by a child who moves so frequently and violently in his sleep that his parents often joke about padding the walls and floor of his bedroom, and doubt that they will ever let him sleep on a bed more than six inches off the floor.

That same boy sang with other children during the church service. His was the voice which sang at twice the volume of all the others; not because of a special gift for musicality, but because of the natural volume he has acquired through the genetic pairing of his two boisterous parents. Still, the sound of his song as he loudly proclaimed “I love you, Mom” left her eyes a little glassy. In a mother’s eyes, enthusiasm trumps skill every time.

Her fancy Mother’s Day lunch was eaten at Wendy’s, because that’s where he wanted to go. When she arrived and found her husband’s “meal” had been prepared incorrectly, she ordered the same thing, but ordered the way he wanted it, and she took his instead. Was it what she wanted? She never said, but she implied that it was, in all likelihood for his benefit.

They arrived home and the child sent her on a hunt for her Mother’s Day card, a single sheet of paper he had colored at school and folded in half. That, along with a plant in a vase he had decorated at school, was her gift.

Dinner, at least, was a nicer fare: a well-cooked steak at her favorite place. She offered to drive because she gets a headache if she tries to read in the car and she knew her husband would enjoy some time playing with his phone during the thirty minute drive. She listened with patience and interest as her son described—in far more detail than anyone cared to hear—his latest toy collection: which figures he had acquired and each of their strange names (which she valiantly tries to remember), which he still needed, what “powers” they possessed, how they worked together, who was good, who was evil. If, by some chance, she and her husband managed a few sentences about grown-up matters, the boy simply put himself on hold until they paused again, and then started up right where he had left off.

They ended the evening watching a few shows they had recorded on the TiVo. She worked a crossword puzzle on the computer. Since it was a special day, she decided to let the boy stay up late, even on a school night. When it was time for bed, she brushed his teeth and turned on his night-light.

Which caused him to cry, because he had wanted to turn on his nightlight.

He had not, of course, told her this before she flicked the dreadful switch, which she does nearly every night as she prepares him for bed. His father weakly suggested that the boy turn the light off and then turn it back on again, but even he knew this would not sooth the boy’s overtired feelings, which were hurt as only a small and sometimes unreasonable child’s feelings can be, and no amount of logic, reason, or discussion of any kind would help.

His father tried to console him, stroked his head and kissed it, even rubbed his back, which he normally loved. But to no avail.

No, the only comfort for him would be that his mother would lie down next to him in his blue race-car bed, as she has on so many other nights. She would stay with him until he fell asleep. While his father wished that the boy would learn to fall asleep on his own, she knew that sometimes a boy simply needs his mother.

So ends another fifteen hour day as a mother. In many ways it is not unlike countless other days she has spent in the nearly seven years since his birth. She would understand if you thought this was a terrible day, perhaps even an unfair day, where she gave so much of herself, especially on a day which was supposed to honor her. But she knows who she is, her identity has not been lost. If she spends her day thinking more about them than herself it is not because she “has” to, but because she wants to, she has chosen to. If these expectations were laid upon one who was unwilling, they would rightly be called a burden. She does not think of them that way. She knows that these two men would not deny her anything; that they would, without hesitation, offer their full strength and ability to any request she made of them. She knows she is loved.

In a way that perhaps only makes sense to herself and others in situations like hers, she will consider this to have been a good day, maybe even a great day. She kissed her husband goodnight and thanked him for a wonderful day.

When he eventually drifts off to sleep, his last thought will be that the true “wonder” of this day, and every other day, is her.