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May
10, 2008
Mother's Day
Dear
Friends,
I was talking with a
good friend the other day -- a woman with no children of her own,
but one who takes care of more people, and animals, than anyone
I know -- about her annual struggle getting through Mother's Day.
No matter how good her life may be, how strong her marriage, and
how many people love her (I'm on the list, for sure), the first
Sunday in May always leaves my friend feeling like the one person
who didn't get invited to the party, the wallflower at the dance.
You don't have
to be a woman without children to have a hard time with Mother's
Day, either. I've got three kids, myself -- all grown up now, transformed
into young adults I both love and like. I know they love me too.
But odds are pretty good there won't be any big message to that
effect coming my way Sunday morning though they will probably pop
an email my way, or call me up and (if I'm not home) leave a funny
message on my machine. And even though I know Mother's Day is basically
a holiday manufactured by florists and the greeting card industry,
I'll probably feel a little sad about that. Not because I feel some
big need for a dozen roses or a box of chocolates. Just because
the day reminds me of all the ways that the dream of how you think
family life should go so often differs markedly from the reality
of the way things actually work, down here on planet earth.
The best moments
for me, as a mother -- and for most of us, I suspect -- seldom come
on schedule. Still, it's hard not to buy into the idea that there's
something wrong with us, and our own flawed families, if they don't
conduct themselves in the way we think happy families are supposed
to. Forty years or so after they aired the last episode of The
Donna Reed Show, I'm still having a little trouble with all
the ways Donna's life, and mine, do not resemble each other. The
husband coming back through the door to pick up his brown paper
lunch bag and kiss her on the cheek (eradicating all trace of the
frown that had briefly passed over her beautiful brow; no Botox
required) was only the first in a very long list.
For me, the
great Mother's Day moment this year actually took place about ten
days ago, when my son Charlie -- a musician and DJ in New York,
who also runs a program in Brooklyn that makes art and music instruction
available for low income kids -- sent me a link to a song he'd recorded.
It was written by one of the children he works with -- an eight
year old boy whose rap name is B Good. The subject is B Good's mother
(a long-suffering woman, according to her son, and no doubt this
is a fairly accurate report since Charlie himself had told me earlier
that B Good was kicked out of his music program for a while, for
not being so good. Not so bad either, just a little rambunctious.)
But Charlie
had advocated strongly on B Good's behalf, and got him accepted
back into the program, where his favorite thing is writing rap lyrics
and making music with Charlie. And a few weeks back, Charlie helped
him make this recording.
The song was
about B Good's mother, not me, of course. Still, listening to it
-- and knowing it had been sent to me by my own son (age 26 now,
and far away, and not always in the closest communication with his
own mom), I felt I was getting a loving Mother's Day message of
my own.
So I thought
I'd share it with you today. And -- because we are not only mothers
here, but children of mothers -- I'm includng a link to a
little essay I published a few months back in Sunset Magazine.
It's about gardening, but -- like so many of the stories I write
-- my mother's enduring presence can be felt in this one, even eighteen
and a half years after her death.
It was on Mother's
Day of 1989, actually, when we got the word that my mother had an
inoperable brain tumor, that would kill her five months later. No
doubt this is another reason why this day is always a little difficult
for me.
I will spend
it taking a nice long hike up on the mountain near where I live,
I think. I'll play B Good's song for myself again, and think about
my son helping him to bring that song into being, and about how
happy it will make B Good's mother, when she hears it, and how all
of us are linked in this odd way, as mothers of sons who may offer
up their love and kindness to us sometimes, and sometimes, to other
mothers' sons, or daughters. (This is something my daughter, the
middle school teacher, is also very good at, by the way. As is my
other son, the actor/gymnast and writer whose image may be seen
very fleetingly at the moment on the television ads for the upcoming
mini-series, Generation
Kill, set to begin airing on HBO this July. He's the one
in the army gear, sitting in a Jeep, who doesn't look anything like
me. Also a really good young man, though not always so good at demonstrating
these qualities to his mother.)
We raise them
and set them loose in the world. Then the best we can do, sometimes,
is listen to their rap songs and watch them fly across the sky,
like shooting stars. Hold them close, then let them go. A lesson
my own mother never got down all that well, much as I adored her.
And one I'm still working on.
The picture
below, incidentally, was taken on Christmas day, this past December
-- a rare and precious moment when all three of my children were
home (my home, no longer theirs, as they remind me) for the holidays.
There's a good reason why the image is a little fuzzy. We were dancing.
With friendship
as always. Mother or not, I hope you have a wonderful day.
Joyce
Maynard
P.S. You know
you can't get one of these letters from me without hearing a reminder
that the absolute best place I can think of, to be, this coming
July 6-13 is on the shores of Lake Atitlan with Ann Hood and me,
at my writing workshop.
Writers and those who simply want to write are all equally welcome.
Places are still available, though lakefront rooms are going fast.
Email me if you'd like
details.
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