Mother’s Day: the one day out of three hundred and sixty-five when a mother might reasonably anticipate the requisite thank you for fulfilling her job description. As a grown-up daughter, I readily concede its necessity; as a burgeoning mother, I tend to prefer those moments when gratitude comes unexpectedly, instinctively: when Bugglegirl, during the throes of a tantrum, pleads in between sobs, “Mommy, I need a hug,” when Buggleboy runs giggling from across the room to bear hug my knees, when Buggledaddy grabs them both for tubby time with the directive to “sit down and relax” (wishful thinking, but a welcome gesture all the same). These are the ephemeral moments not marked by a greeting card or a bouquet of lilies, the moments that don’t make it into the tattered shoebox marked “mementos,” but instead disappear into the emotional ether to be called upon sooner or later: to bolster me when I’m convinced that if one more unfinished meal is tossed onto the floor, if one more shrieking “No!” pierces my eardrums, if one more diaper explodes after I’ve just finished the laundry, I just might not make it.
But of course, I do make it. Becoming a mother (and I use that word “becoming,” though my children are past infancy, to indicate a process rather than a terminable event) has taught me not that practice makes perfect, but rather that practice makes progress. Even so, as a recovering perfectionist prone to frequent relapses, either relishing in or fleeing from the chaos I’ve helped create can be daunting, almost impossible. I envy the apparent ease with which a mom can sprinkle shallots into the slow cooker with one hand, sip pinot grigio from a glass in the other and exclaim, “Thank God for Spray N Wash” as her kid smears finger pain all over himself. And I’m equally jealous of a mother who unabashedly retains a nanny, babysitter,
anybody, on a random Wednesday, when the nothing in particular she has planned certainly doesn’t involve any of her children. I tend to be terrible at letting go; and when I manage to, I spend much of my time struggling to recover my grip. My kids could do worse. But knowing that ultimately I may be my own worst critic doesn’t make it any easier to accept the realization that the best I can do is really the best I can do.
Ultimately, my dilemma will be irrelevant: transformed, along with those fleeting moments, into a hazy memory smelling faintly of crayons and baby shampoo. My children will let me go, and I them. Until then, wading knee-deep in the muck of child rearing doesn’t leave much time for self-indulgent deprecation or nostalgia. All of this – from misery to magic – is, in fact, exactly what I signed up for. I have to remind myself that it won’t always be like this – a mantra at once my saving grace and a sentimental lament that leaves me feeling bittersweet. I struggle to appreciate not just the victories – a full night’s sleep, graduation from diapers, from high school (imagine it!), but also the trials – spending half the night in the rocking chair, scrubbing the latest form of excrement off the new carpet, the unforeseen traumas of adolescence. I’m frequently mediocre at treasuring the good and downright dreadful at embracing the bad, but I’m persevering. And giving thanks for all of the
thanks I can scrounge.
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