Mother’s Day is complicated, and it all starts with this question:

“What do you want for Mother’s Day?” asked my family.

Mothers aren’t supposed to want anything, beyond our own children’s safety and success, correct? 

But my family expects an answer, so here goes nothing.

How about a trip to the movies to see The Sheep Detectives? Plus the $7.00 meal deal from Dairy Queen?

Surely, Mom, you want more than that. How about a spa gift certificate? 

Really, y’all, I’ve still got two that I haven’t used yet, because I won’t take the time to go. Too much with the housework, the job work, the games to attend, the other events of life that just keep coming.

For I must remember all the birthdays and celebrations. I must sign all the paperwork. And especially, I must say all the prayers, or else I could inadvertently cause my children and family members lifelong damage and harm. 

Motherhood is relentless. It’s the most daunting and intense of life’s activities. Let one thing go, we think, and we’ll scar our children for life.

Up at night to check the baby, feed the baby, change the baby, rock the baby. Somehow you have the ears to hear every little whimper through your veil of light sleep and maternal duty that never lets you rest enough, but through the haze of brain fog, you always find your way to your kid.

Is the baby gaining enough weight? Is the baby gaining too much weight? What’s that knot on the baby’s head? Is the baby pooping enough? Is the baby pooping too much? Is the baby hitting all the appropriate developmental milestones?

Am I worrying too much? Am I doing this all right?

Surely fathers worry too, but maybe not about the same kinds of issues as we women, we mothers.

Grocery lists and meal prep, checking the school folders and signing permission slips, prepping snacks and laying out the clothes. Packing the backpacks and making sure the sports equipment is in the car, plus the sunscreen and the bug spray and a change of clothes just in case.

And then, as time warps and you’ve got practically adult children, it only continues.

Did they register for the ACT? Did they fill out the application form? Did they remember all their school work? 

Did they fill up their car with gas? Did they check their phone at that dangerous intersection? 

Did they say yes? Did they say no?

Did they use protection?

Do we stick our heads in the sand and pretend that our kids would never do such a thing? Never make the wrong decisions? Never succumb to pressure?

Never dare to live their lives apart from our influence and control?

Oh no, not my kid, say so many today. These mothers either forget what it was like to be a kid themselves, or they’re trying their best to protect their kid from the natural consequences of living.

Or, we’re just trying to protect ourselves, for it’s the mother who is blamed when things go wrong, and if not by anyone else, by the condemnation we bring down on ourselves.

Am I right?

If I had only taken more time to read to them when they were little, then maybe they would have gotten that scholarship.

If only I had made them eat their broccoli, then maybe they’d want to eat more than just chicken fingers and fries now. 

If only I had ceased the chores just long enough to play that video game with them, then maybe they’d spend more time with me now.

If I had only been more patient when teaching them to tie their shoes, then maybe they wouldn’t have learned to have such a quick temper.

If only.

Down the rabbit hole of regret we burrow, burying ourselves in the what-ifs.

Whoa, there, woman. Just stop it. Cut it out, right now. 

Put yourself in a timeout. There’s nothing quite like the guilt trip mothers put themselves through, but this is not the day for all of that. 

Just for today, let’s give ourselves a present. This goes for the biological moms, the adoptive moms, the spiritual moms, the foster moms.

It goes for everyone, truly, for all people, for we wouldn’t be living without the woman who brought us into this world.

For what I want most for Mother’s Day is this:

I want all those with their mothers still living this side of Heaven to celebrate them like the queens they are. Give them the tomato plants, the spa gift certificates, the roses, or dinner at the local Golden Corral.

Give them the time they deserve. Give them a phone call. Send them a card. 

Tell them you’re proud of them, that you love them, and that you’re so happy they’re your mother.

I want all those living without their mothers, whether from death or estrangement or some other unwelcome separation, to be kind to themselves today. May there be some happy memory on which to anchor your troubled thoughts.

I want those who long to become a mom, whether through biological means, adoption, or fostering, to have some peace today. I want those precious ladies who wanted to become a mom but were never able to realize that dream to be surrounded with love and compassion.

It amazes me when I see women like you. You’re just as much a mother as the rest of us, if not more so. Your heartache runs more deeply than some of the rest of us can ever understand, yet so many of you, through some draw of life’s purpose, surround yourself with children and work yourself to the bone trying to make things better for them.

The teachers. The nurses. The social workers. The ones caring for neighbors’ kids or nieces or nephews or the kids of your friends’ friends.

For those mothers who have lost children, who feel their absence even more acutely on this day, may tender mercies visit you and ease the pain in your heart.

And may the rest of us take heart and be encouraged, we mothers who are doing our best to guide our children through all the stages of life. We know it’s the hardest job in the world, one you sometimes feel comes with unlimited rides on guilt trip’s roller coaster, and never a promotion or a pay raise, until—

You get that $7 meal deal and eat it on the patio of the DQ, savoring French fries and ice cream, just like old times with your littles.

Priceless perfection. Even the kids say so.

You get to see that stupid new sheep movie, which isn’t as stupid as you thought it would be. It is warm and lighthearted and quite sophisticated. You laugh at the cornball jokes and tear up over the sentimental scenes. 

One of the movie’s lessons? 

Remember. 

Remember. 

Remember.

Remembering means thinking of painful times, but it also means safeguarding our loved ones in our hearts, forever.

I’ll always hold my children, in whose eyes I still see reflections of their newborn selves, all swaddled and snug and safe.

It doesn’t take much, and there I am again, in the dark with a night light, rocking my babies at 2:00 am. I’m drowsy, but content. I pray over their little heads, stroking wisps of their hair, thanking God for this moment.

“Mom, can you sign my permission slip?”

The reverie is broken. Youngest Daughter is holding out a paper for a field trip this week. I read the information, sign my name, and go fold a pile of clothes. Meanwhile, Eldest Daughter’s Life360 pings to let me know she made it back to her apartment. She left her plate of leftovers from lunch at Victoria’s in the refrigerator, so I might as well go eat that piece of chocolate pie she forgot.

The pile of clothes can wait.

Mother’s Day is complicated.

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