Mother’s Day Blues: The Flip Side of What 1–800-Flowers Isn’t Saying

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As a woman, I’ve always struggled with the concept of Mother’s Day. I’m not saying everyone falls into this hole, but after years of lauding Sunday as the day of all days to celebrate our mothers, I’ve often thought about a large section of women who fall outside that happiness box. The “others.”

So, this is for those who either chose to not have children, could not have children, or wished they had a different mother. Everyone else might just want to chuck this post.

Oddly, I grew up not wanting to have children. I simply didn’t picture myself as a doting parent, even though my mother was the epitome of good parenting skills. I didn’t feel I was being selfish. I just envisioned a whole different life for myself, traveling the world, maybe joining the Peace Corps, a single suitcase, and that’s it.

So, when none of that happened, and I went the conventional route because I honestly believed I had no other choice, I didn’t stress the whole Mother’s Day thing with my kids. It felt too obligatory. And in my mind, it only circled around an expectation and a false ideal that you weren’t a woman if you didn’t have babies. The truth is a woman’s self-worth is determined by her own measure. And definitely not by how many watermelons she can spit out.

I can’t fault anyone for not wanting to spend their days cleaning up after a bunch of poopy kids, or going out to eat and having to endure a meal listening to the sound of weeping and carrying on. My heart goes out to those non-mothers who wished they were mothers and have to pretend this day has no meaning, hating Hallmark and 1–800-flowers with their chirpy “Happy Mother’s Day!” ads splattered all over the Internet. My heart goes out to those sons and daughters of loving, dead mothers who see this as nothing but a shitty, lonely reminder of what they’ve lost. And to those with grew up in a household never knowing the true meaning of unconditional love from a mother, my heart goes out to you too. It’s tough trying to be selfless and shower a little person with a sense of empowerment when the only role models you had were clueless.

Mothering just isn’t for everyone.

I have no regrets that I went down this road. Like everyone else, I’ve learned to take the heat for all my kids’ screw-ups, to endure their abuse about getting old, and that I’ve repeated myself way too many times. I just smile and think, “You just wait kiddo. One day it’ll be your turn.” So, if you want to give me the card, the flowers, the candy, the whole shebang, go for it. Just don’t go overboard. Check out the $1.25 Store (I don’t know . . . that still doesn’t have the same ring as the Dollar Store), and please don’t do it because you feel you have to, but because you want to. I’m saving all my guilt trips for worthier things.

Peace. Hugs. Thanks.

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Google Reviews of Holidays

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In my house, Google and Amazon are my Gods. When I’m looking to buy a new bra, read a book, learn how to speak Aramaic, find the 10 best sites for workouts, or figure out a medical diagnosis for the latest litany of physical symptoms I’m experiencing, I do my research, then scour the Internet for reviews. I don’t know about you, but I’ve come to view the Internet as a ready source for anything and everything. So, it was with that in mind that I couldn’t help wondering what about holidays? Are people actually posting reviews on those sorts of things as well?  Okay, I figured it was a stretch, but much to my surprise, these turned up.

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I’m not a big holiday person. But I like office parties because there’s always lots of food and booze and you can’t beat that. But since COVID and I once found a co-worker doing a George Castanza and re-dipping his chips in the guacamole, all that’s kaput, as far as I’m concerned. So if I want the extra food and booze and human company, it seems I now have to suffer through my mother’s dry turkey and hours listening to my uncle tell the same tired jokes and reminding everyone about the time he caught me as a kid masturbating in the woods. Somehow I don’t see the justice in this.

I’d give the holidays and the year a big fat zero star if I could.

Jeremiah B, Fargo, ND

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I love Christmas. We don’t have much money, but somehow my husband always manages to give me the best gifts — ever. (Not). Last year, it was a fluffy white rabbit with the biggest bow strung around her neck. My son, who’s four, named her Flopsy and immediately became enamored by this somewhat adorable creature taking over my house, pooping everywhere. You would have thought my husband would have had the smarts to at least get a rabbit who was litter trained. Oh, no! The thing is, I wouldn’t have really cared. The tiny pellet balls didn’t smell. I found them easily enough — as did my son. A curious little tyke who just loves his fruits and thought they were blueberries. While Flopsy didn’t last long in our house, the giggles coming from my boy remained something priceless.

So I give Christmas five stars. I give my need-to-do-better-gift-buying husband one.

Kaitlyn, Boston, MA

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Growing up Jewish, I always felt cheated. How can you compare a bunch of guys in loincloths hunkering down in a temple with an oil lamp against a jolly larger-than-life bearded old man armed with a sled full of presents and all those cute reindeer? Yeah, we had our stories, our songs, the dreidel game, the chocolate gelt, the latkes, and the festivities. And yet, eh. I still wanted that tree. The idea of decorating it with all those beautiful ornaments I knew I could get 50% off at Target was going to make my life better, fuller, and richer. That was the thinking. My first year on my own, right after Thanksgiving, I got that tree. And a real one! To say it was magnificent would be an understatement. The twinkling lights, the rainbow of satin balls, the ribbons threading through the branches, and the smell of pine permeating every nook and cranny of the small apartment. I remember standing there for a long time just admiring it before it hit me. This was just a tree. Pretty, yes, but it held no significance, nothing religious or spiritual that I connected to. I might not have fully realized at that precise moment how important my role at holiday time would become, but when my children and grandchild were born, the message came through loud and clear. For eight nights I brought to life the story of the Maccabees. I slaved over my grandmother’s recipe for latkes. I lit the Chanukah candles. And after singing “Oh Chanukah, Oh Chanukah” to a forgiving audience, I said a silent prayer hoping my efforts weren’t in vain,  I somehow kept my tribe alive, and I instilled that requisite spark that would one day keep the light burning.

So, here’s to all holidays. I give them a whopping five stars.

Olivia, San Bruno, CA

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There you have it! Of course, as a disclaimer, this writer neither condemns nor condones these viewpoints. They are here merely for your reading pleasure. And if you’re daring enough to share a review or your own I’d love to hear from you.
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I’m a Mother. My Choice. Fuck the Supreme Court.

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I can’t think of a more appropriate day to proclaim these words — my choice — than today, on Mother’s Day. Unlike others who had shitty mothers, I was lucky in so, so many ways. My mother was nurturing, showering me with unconditional love (when needed), wielding that guilt baton (also when necessary), and paved the way for who I should be as a woman and a mother.

“Women’s rights is not only an abstraction, a cause, it is also a personal affair. It is not only about us, it is also about me and you. Just the two of us.” — Toni Morrison

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