That special day that comes once a year, created for the soul purpose of reminding us to take a moment and tell the woman who gave birth to us how much they are appreciated. We give them flowers and make them breakfast in bed, give them gifts and take on extra chores to help them out. We spend the day telling them how much we care. It's a lovely holiday.
When I was little girl, my parents divorced, and for reasons that I didn't know then, my father cut off all contact between me and my mother. He remarried and the woman who became my step-mom was the person I considered "Mom." I made her paper flowers in school, colored her pictures, and even made her burnt toast and cereal for that all important Mother's Day breakfast in bed. When I was 9, her and my dad got a divorce. She told my dad that she never wanted to see me again.
A few years later, my dad met a woman through a family member. She had three kids of her own, so when my dad moved us in with her, we already expected a challenge. Mixed families are extremely difficult even in the best of circumstances. I remember my dad telling me that I didn't have to call her mom if I didn't want to, but that it would make her feel good. So I did. It was just a name, after all. But what I didn't understand then, was that just because you called a person "mom" that didn't mean that they had to treat you like you were their kid. Unfortunately, it was very difficult for her to accept me and treat me like I was one of her own. After living in that house for a few years, being treated like the "step-child", my dad finally decided enough was enough. Things just weren't working out.
When I was 13, my dad realized I was at that age that he officially had no clue what to do with me. I was failing every class except gym, refusing to do my homework, running away from home, and lying through my teeth about anything and everything. I think he was a little afraid that he was going to have to start buying me tampons soon, and that freaked him out too. So after spending my entire life only knowing step-moms, he was finally sending me to live with my real mother.
Over night, I went from being my father's only child to having two older and two younger sisters. I was dead middle. I had a mother that I never got a chance to know as a little kid and I couldn't even get her sole attention for 5 straight minutes. I over heard a phone conversation between her and my dad in which she told him that I was a brat because I didn't know how to play with my younger sisters. I didn't know how to share, how to talk to them, how to act. I didn't know how to be a part of a family. I wanted her love and attention, for her to show me what I was supposed to do, and she called me a brat. That broke my heart.
During the most important years of my early womanhood, I was treated as invisible, a rebellious stain on the family, and was considered little more than a free baby sitter. My refusal to do homework, my constant running away, and my compulsive lying didn't end. And sadly, the worse I got, the more I was ignored. Finally, one night I told my mom that I was going back to live with my dad. I was moments away from dropping out of school and my life was looking like my destiny was to become a statistic. My mom took the news hard. So hard in fact, that she attempted suicide in front of me. In a drunken stupor, she burned her own wrists with her cigarette and said "Look what you're doing to me." Then she took a knife and attempted to take her own life. I was 16.
Less than 24 hours later, I was back in the safety of my dad's care. My mother was taken for a 72 hour lock down and my sisters blamed me for everything.
I didn't have a whole lot of faith in mothers after that. So when my dad told me his girlfriend was moving in, I was skeptical. I thanked my lucky stars at the time that I was 18 and living on my own. I had no intention of ever calling anyone "mom" ever again. To me, the word was synonymous with uncaring, unloyal, and heartless. I told my dad to never expect me to call her "mom." It simply wasn't going to happen. It was in that conversation that my dad told me how sorry he was. He had been afraid to raise me alone and in his haste to find me a mother, he hadn't been as picky as he should have been. He told me he made choices that he thought would be the best for me. Obviously they didn't work out the way he'd planned. He asked for my forgiveness and I didn't hesitate to give it.
I'm 31 now, and a mother of three beautiful daughters. I have moments where I question my abilities to parent and get down on myself for making mistakes. I look back at what I have been taught from my "mothers" and I struggle to not become one of them. I see some of the same things I did as a kid being repeated in my eldest and it scares me. But my dad assures me that most of that is genetics. He was pretty rebellious too.
His live-in girlfriend became his wife and they've been married for 10 years now. It was very slow going between my step-mother and myself, but we've actually grown closer than I expected. I still refuse to call her mom, and she's okay with that. She has no other children. So my kids are her only grandkids. It's nice to have someone who treats my kids like her own, yet doesn't require me to treat her like my mother.
What's really interesting, is that even though I have an extreme distaste for having a mother, I've realized in my adulthood that there are people in my life that have filled the holes left behind by those other women. It's not just one person, but in fact many, who have added to my ideal version of a mother. My dad, ironically, has been the biggest part of that. When I was sick as a child, he took care of me. He was awkward and clumsy, but he was there. He never failed to give me the honest, sometimes brutal truth. He stayed awake at night, wondering what the hell to do with a kid who was simply unmotivated to do anything. He made choices about what was best for me, not necessarily for himself. But most importantly, when I was in trouble, during the most difficult time in my life, he was there to pull me out of it, then proceed to kick my ass into gear and tell me to make something of myself. He's the only reason I finished high school.
Strangely enough, my husband has also filled the role of mother from time to time. Yea, I know. It's weird. But he encourages me. He has my back, and he never gives up on me. I didn't have that as a kid. I hold no grudges toward my dad, but even he had a moment where he couldn't do it anymore, and he gave up on me. He sent me away. Now, that's completely forgiven and totally in the past. But my husband, even when I pushed him away, even when I tried to leave him, even at my worst, most bitchiest moments, has never let me go. He will never give up on me. He has complete faith in me. That's the kind of relationship that I can trust will always be there. That's the kind of thing a mother should always be to their kids.
My best friend is always there to help fill the role of mommy to me, too. She never fails to be there when I need her. I can cry and vent or laugh until I pee. Either way, she's there. There is no judgement in her. Not an ounce. I could tell her that I murdered someone, and she would probably start a car wash to raise money for my bail. She never doubts me, never criticizes me (unless it's constructive), and always pushes me to be my best. It's one of the most important traits of a mother, one I hope always have for my kids.
My step-mom (the current one) has this amazing patience. She's very soft spoken compared to my dad's loud, booming presence. She's always thinking of me and my kids. She remembers little details about everyone and never fails to show up with little presents, even if it's just a cut out of a magazine article she thinks I'll like, or a dollar package of crayons for the kids. And despite the numerous attempts to push her away, she never fails to let it ride off of her like water off a duck's back. I even find myself thinking about her this year for Mother's Day, and considering sending her a card.
So to the mothers out there, whether you gave birth to someone or not, whether you have step-kids, foster kids, adopted kids, or kids with four legs and fur, whether you lack the necessary body parts to actually have kids, or are the type of person who just doesn't want to raise babies, if you've touched someone else's life and made them feel loved, important, and cared for, thank you. You may not know how important you are to someone. But trust me, you've helped. You were there. And that's the most important thing in the world.
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