A Mother’s Day Rose

                I got a rose in church for Mother’s Day.

                I tossed it in the garbage when I got home.

               It isn’t like I haven’t had difficult Mother’s Days before. Thirteen years on the infertility roller coaster equaled 13 years of ingenious excuses to avoid church on Mother’s Day. After adopting, I jumped overnight into Motherhood as I literally held the life of each child in my hands.

                But it has been said that the art of parenting is the art of turning over control of their life — to them.

                It is hardly a straight line. And so I may have been hovering a bit with my baby.

                My 18-year-old baby.

                OK, I WAS hovering. A lot. How do you do “mother” when no one needs you anymore? My clumsy attempts at adjusting intersected with my daughter’s need to be treated like an adult but still only possessing teenage skills. Mean and ugly things were said.

                I retreated to bed early to be done with Mother’s Day and so I missed my newly married daughter’s call. The next morning, I awoke to her lifeline, thrown in the form of an e-mail.

                If someone told me a year ago that I would be calling my mom weekly, asking for advice, talking just to talk, being excited get a call and to see her number pop up on the screen, I would call them crazy. Mother’s Day means something completely different to me now.

                Looking back — thank you for keeping us sheltered. You always kept us safe in the crazy world that we live in. Thanks for keeping the technology far away, for not letting us sleep over, for being paranoid about where we were. I am so utterly grateful for this as I look back. You loved us so much that you dealt with being the “bad guy” for years, so that we were safe.

                Thank you for not spoiling us and for teaching us how to work. I remember how “abused” (if only I knew what other people dealt with) I felt for not having all the cool things, and for having to clean and weed, and do chores. But I see how much that has helped me in my “adult” life so far–understanding the value of money, hard work, and that material things are not everything. Again, you took the hard road as a mother making us do these things. I cannot begin to imagine the hell I put you through when all you were doing was making me a better person.

                Thank you for forcing me to go to church. If you hadn’t, I am not sure I would be where I am today. Thank you for forcing “family time” on us. I am so sorry for the years of fighting back and being ever so reluctant to enjoy it. Those memories have such a special place in my heart now. I seriously can’t apologize enough for the crap I gave you and Dad.  I know it wasn’t easy for you.

                Family dinners. I wish I had been there for every single one of them. I wish I could go back and relive those precious moments with the family. Thank you for facilitating that. Thank you for making those meals, for dealing with my many complaints, for keeping us healthy.

                Mom, you are everything I want to be when I am a mom. You mean so much to me.

                Happy Mother’s Day.

                The first thing I did after drinking in her words was to mend my relationship with my teenager as best I could. Second, I recommitted–again– to hovering less. Third, I fished the rose out of the garbage. It was wilted and beat up but still carried a faint scent. I put it in water and placed it where it couldn’t be missed.

                Perhaps a perfect metaphor for Mother’s Day after all.