Mother’s Day, the Surprise Gift I Didn’t Order

Mother’s Day is a sur­prise gift I didn’t order. After con­scious­ly plan­ning my life with­out chil­dren, I stared uncom­pre­hend­ing­ly at the lit­tle plus sign in the win­dow. I had unfail­ing­ly tak­en the pill for 16 years. I had no idea how to do this.

Luckily, I have the world’s great­est teacher. My mom taught me that this too shall pass. The beau­ti­ful, bru­tal, fright­en­ing, wor­ri­some car­ni­val ride that is par­ent­ing . . . it all pass­es. Some days we knock it out of the park and oth­er days we roy­al­ly screw it up. Some days the world pierces our child’s frag­ile armor and we despair for human­i­ty on their behalf. And the sun sets and rises. 

My mom also taught me that fam­i­ly and human­i­ty are the same thing. As moth­ers, we are called to care for all the world’s chil­dren. To love those that feel unlov­able. To feed and clothe and advo­cate for the starved and cold and vic­tim­ized. To find the voice­less and hand them both a micro­phone and a lis­ten­ing ear. 

Did you know that Mother’s Day was orig­i­nal­ly found­ed in the 1850’s as a way for mourn­ing women to chan­nel their grief and work for peace? In 1870, Julia Ward Howe’s now-famous Mother’s Day Proclamation called for all women to take an active polit­i­cal role in pro­mot­ing world peace.

Let that sink in for a bit. Mother’s Day isn’t about mimosas or flow­ers or gift cer­tifi­cates for mas­sages. It’s about band­ing togeth­er as women to choose peace in a chaot­ic world.

My moth­er doesn’t want flow­ers on Sunday. She wants me to call my con­gress­men, to advo­cate for equal pay, to brave­ly write the hard things that need to be said aloud.

Let this be my prayer that all moth­ers find peace today.

The moth­ers (like mine) who told us we could be any­thing, who raised us to be good moms ourselves. 

The moth­ers that sac­ri­ficed and strug­gled and sought a bet­ter life for their kids than they them­selves enjoyed. 

The moth­ers who strug­gled to con­ceive, or lost a baby, or out­lived their children. 

The moth­ers born with the wrong sex­u­al organs. 

The moth­ers who adopt, or fos­ter, or raise kids with spe­cial needs or neu­ro­di­ver­gent brains. 

The moth­er­less moms who lost their moth­ers to drugs, or men­tal health dis­or­ders, or death. 

The moms that nev­er had the moth­ers they deserved but changed the nar­ra­tive when it was their turn.

The dog moms. The cat moms. The bird moms.

The moth­ers who chose not to con­ceive but still bring their light to the world in a mil­lion oth­er ways. 

The moth­ers-in-law, the step­moth­ers, the godmothers. 

The moth­ers who are exhaust­ed, hot mess­es and the moth­ers who crush par­ent­ing on the regular. 

The work­ing moth­ers and sin­gle moth­ers and stay-at-home moth­ers and moth­ers work­ing dou­ble shifts to pay for health care. 

The moth­ers breast­feed­ing on the toi­let or strug­gling to unfold the stroller at the restau­rant (The most lov­ing, empa­thet­ic thing ever uttered to me was from a stranger in the Atlanta air­port. Ma’am, can I hold your baby while you pee?)

Peace for all the moth­ers doing their best. I see you and applaud you. You’re our moth­ers and chil­dren too. If none of us gets out of here alive, we may as well walk each oth­er home.