hallmark holiday

a real mothers day story

[*written before before before. right after covid restrictions lifted]

“No, I do NOT want to do anything for Mother’s Day, not ever,” I tell my Brooklyn daughter, a little snottier than I intended. “It’s not important,” I explain, trying to soothe out the rough edges.

“Anyways, I have to see your grandma, and I’ll be goddamned if I do to you what’s been done to me: carrying the burden of a bullshit hallmark holiday due solely to unfortunate geographic proximity.”

“No-no-no. Do not come home just because you drew the short straw of being a Metro-North train away,” I insist when she calls, again, just to be sure. “I’ll be with Grammy anyway. Seriously, Mother’s Day is complete bullshit. I love you, and am so so so glad you called. Miss you too. Love ya.” I reassure this daughter of mine, and me, hang up, then load up the car to visit my own mother, a short drive in dog years away.

I bring lobster rolls from a local bar, rice pudding from her favorite diner, a homemade quiche, the obligatory begonia, plus a tomato plant I’ll put on her deck –hoping the fruits of my labor might bring her some joy.

“The plant you gave me last year died,” she says from the pink pleather recliner when I stumble into her house, juggling take-out containers, a willowing tomato plant, plus homemade quiche, her favorite, still warm from my oven. “The one from last year – look. It’s still out there on the deck. Dead.”

I use my forearm to push mail, cat food, empty yogurt containers, prescription bottles, and half-drunk coffee mugs out of the way so there’s space at her kitchen table. She hobbles to the kitchen to eat, no hugs, no hello. It’s not her style.

“This lobster isn’t half bad,” she’s reluctant to admit. “But too much, far too much – I’ll never eat all this, and these fries? Ew. Soggy. I like them well-done: extra crispy.” She pushes the styrofoam away, shaking her head in disgust.

I eat her fries and ask how she’s feeling: it’s her favorite conversation.

Her back. Her hip. Wants shoulder replacement. I make the grave error of suggesting physical therapy. “PT is a complete waste of time, Kathy. They know NOTHNG.”

No appetite. She doesn’t know why. Something must be wrong with her. Doctor this week, a new one. She looks about 12. No, she doesn’t need a ride – “don’t be ridiculous. I can certainly drive myself, Kath-eeee,” she snarls.

There’s nothing wrong with you, Mom. Maybe you’re just not hungry.

“Hmphf,– so you’re a doctor now? What do you know? They’re running tests. Lots and lots of tests.”

“And, your kids? They don’t even want to see you on Mother’s Day?” she taunts. I remind her that they live in Denver. And North Carolina. And one has finals. And actually, Mom, Brooklyn asked if you and I wanted to go for lunch – but she snaps like a rabid dog: “NEVER go out to eat on Mother’s Day. Never. The service is awful, even before COVID.”

My throat tightens, my heart beats behind my eyes. I pivot as we move back to her living room.

“Mom, this is my first time in your house without a mask. Look at me, what a mess; my allergies are killing me.” I rub my itchy eyes, and sneeze – one, two, three, always in three – interrupting the conversation. And she says, “well serves you right: why are you sitting there? That’s the cat’s chair.”

I nod and stand, sneezing, and the cat assumes the vacancy before the third sneeze.

I stay until I can no longer. “I’m tired, and my allergies are a mess, mom, sorry. I’m going home.’

“Tired from what?” she jeers, “What do you do all day.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but I answer anyway.

Well, I work and mow the lawn and work more and write a little when I can and walk the dog and make quiche and find you lobster rolls and begonias, and repot a tomato plant for you and –

“I prefer larger tomatoes, you should know that by now, but it’s fine. The cherries will be fine.”

I don’t let it bother me, I don’t think I do, but when I get home, I wash my face, Visine my eyes, pop a Claritin with a glass of wine, and collapse on the couch to stare at my phone, stare hard, holding it in my hands like a magic lantern, willing it to ring, buzz or beep, because the real story is, I want to hear their voices.

I need to ask them, these grown children of mine, one by one, to tell me, if they can: was I a good mom

or

did

I

just

think

I

was.

*

a much better mothers day when grandkids are present