On Friday Jake’s kindergarten class had a Mother’s Day Spa Day, in which all the moms brought in deck chairs and lounged in the darkened classroom to the sound of soothing spa music while their five year olds rubbed lotion into their feet, rubbed their shoulders, and brushed their hair. After untangling the brushes from our hair, we were treated to manicures.
Lovely! The photos don’t quite do it justice.
In addition to the spa day, Jake also gave me a “hug book” filled with pictures and sweetly phonetically spelled sentences about me (“My mom is so pritte and wundrfl.”) as well as a very scented lilac made out of purple tissue paper. Mark, not to be outdone, made a construction paper card with a picture of an elephant on it – my favourite wild animal! – and we all went out for brunch at my husband’s golf course. My ego got a boost when my husband told me that I got “checked out”, and my ego only deflated a small amount when I discovered that the man “checking me out” was close to seventy. A lovely day, and a lovely end to the weekend, which was slightly marred by all the nocturnal coughing being done by Mark.
Each year I remind myself that Mother’s Day is not a day that is met with fanfare and celebration by all, despite the many commercials implying that failure to purchase flowers, jewelry, or spa gift certificates will result in a direct trip to hell in a handbasket, or at the very least, will show your mother/wife that you don’t actually love or appreciate her. Mother’s Day, while a joyful and lovely day for me, can be terrible for some. For those who are estranged from or have strained relations with their mothers, for those suffering infertility, for those who have lost a mother, wife, or child, Mother’s Day can be complicated and painful, and I try to remember that with sensitivity each year. I once stumbled on a website that discussed all the ways family members had disappointed their mothers on Mother’s Day, from forgetting altogether to not getting the lavish gifts that these women had anticipated. Reading the stories, I felt the same way that I felt when I found out about “push presents”; a feeling along the lines of you are missing the point.
When the boys were babies, and my days were filled with chaos and crying, diapers and drudgery, all marked with vast underlying exhaustion, the gift I wanted most for Mother’s Day was just a few hours to myself. I wanted a few hours of silence, of time to do anything I wanted to do without someone crying or asking me for something or fetching a snack or feeding someone or having a small person stuck on my body like a barnacle to a ship. And now every day I have long stretches of time to myself, whole mornings of complete silence and solitude, hours to run errands alone. Those days that seemed endless have ended. This is such a golden time, this time of crafts and drawings and uninhibited hugs, and I know it too will end one day. I look at my boys and this life that I never thought I wanted but now I see that it is perfect for me, and I can’t believe my good fortune.
Just this.