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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.
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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