Mothers' Day

Talk about getting put on the back burner.  Poor blog...poor writing in general.  A little part of me weeps for you, but I've been trying to figure all sorts of things out and appear to have abandoned you.

I'm back though, and I haven't abandoned my children, so Mothers' Day is a good reason to do a little writing.  Growing up this holiday was so simple.  Yay, a day to celebrate my mom...who was most definitely under-celebrated for most of the year.  I don't remember much about Mothers' Day in Wyoming, except that I loved to pick dandelions off the church lawn to present to my mom.  I don't even know if there WERE dandelions around our house, but since the church had a lawn, it sure as heck had dandelions and I would pick her bunches as my family chatted away at THE social event of the week before heading back to our (relatively) middle-of-nowhere ranch.

After moving to Blackfoot, we started a tradition of Dad driving into town on Saturday night and buying her a cake, a corsage to wear to church and maybe something special to go with Sunday dinner.  I always got deliriously excited about this tradition he started because a) it showed her loved her and b) I thought she'd be so surprised the next morning.  In retrospect, she was probably sharp enough to figure out exactly what would happen as it was a tradition.  I love younger Marianne, what a goof.

Once in a relationship, I looked forward to being a mom someday.  Dear Lucas even got me a Mothers' Day present 2 months before we were married as the future mother of his children.  A few people thought it was weird, but I thought it was a most romantic gesture and wore the dress proudly for our wedding day luncheon.  And when Lily was born I'm sure my first Mothers' Day was extra meaningful, but somewhere along the way my feelings got all jumbled up, my expectations got a bit ridiculous and now it's sometimes great when I go into it with zero expectations and sometimes (like yesterday) a mixed bag of emotions with lots of crying and regret, all while my sweet children pour love and attention upon me.  They have yet to pull off a Mothers' Day without fighting and teasing each other or getting extra hyper from the excitement, but they are not angels, just beautiful children (still, that would be the ultimate Mothers' Day).

Now Mothers' Day is a time I reflect on all the motherly traits I lack, on my weaknesses as a mother, on if I will ever be enough.  I mean, honestly, I do this with all of my life.  I hate this part of me (it can be a bit exhausting to Lucas too), but on Mother's Day it's just really bad.  Because, because - as I've probably stated a million times, being a mom is all I ever wanted out of life.  I've even felt ashamed of that before, but not so much anymore.  So what?  I never wanted to be an executive or famous or the greatest scientist of all time.  I wanted a beautiful little flock of children surrounding me, and I've got them.  And they came into my life so seamlessly.  I literally feel like I was born in every way to be a mother.  Mothers' Day should be great.  But somehow I've filled it with shame, regret, guilt.  Why did it all come so easily to me and not to other women?  I struggle at feeling I never give my kids enough attention.  Why didn't things work out how I imagined them as a wife and mom?  My kids will never have great things to say about me when they grow up like all the graduating seniors say about their moms.  Ugh.  I mean like lately Lily has been describing all these other moms as organized and perky.  She makes it very clear I am not perky.  And I can testify I will never be perky.  Silly, comedic, nature girl, caring, chef, worrier, walker, cheerer, hugger?  Yes!  Perky.  No.  I'm much more Eeyore than perky, and to hear my children noting my flaws (and they note many) hurts.  I mean, don't get me wrong, they tell me things they like about me too, but, naturally, the 'what I'm nots' are what stick in my brain.  And to top it all off, stupid, stinking, wretched comparison.  And I know it, I know it is the worst thing ever, but I compare what I do as a homemaker, housekeeper and mom to what I see other's do and boy am I lacking.  I know I shouldn't, but I do.  See, naughty, naughty girl. 

So that is why Mothers' Day is not my favorite.

It has gotten better.  Last year, I didn't expect anything and just jumped in with housework and feeling like it was a 'normal' day and it felt really nice.  This year, it took my awhile to get in the right mindset because, boy, had Lily (with some definite Matt contributions) put a lot of thought into feeding me (presumably until I would burst) a lovely breakfast and lunch.  My goodness, she had a shopping list, and a planning session with Matt.  She and her dad shopped the night before and she set up flowers on my nightstand and my table.  Makes me cry now and realize I need to thank her even more after school.  Because for being the kid who seems to like me the least, she put so much into yesterday that maybe she does like me a lot. 

So maybe this post is a little venting, a little therapeutic, and a reminder of what I need to not do to myself in the future. 

Of all my dreams (99% of which have not come true which is probably, like, I don't know, life), my deepest heart's desire(s) did come true, and no matter who else is or is not a traditional mom, no matter how great or horrible or lucky other mothers are or are not, this is my house, our sanctuary from the world, and God has given me a mighty wonderful husband and 5 children who are as wacky in their own wild ways as I am in mine.  As a family, we do everything imperfectly.  We fail and pick ourselves back up and fail again, but there is love, and there is always ALWAYS that willingness to try again and love again and forgive again, and that is enough.

I'm sure God smiles upon us when a child who shall not be named proudly announces that he actually did wipe his bum once today (beaming as if I should be immensely proud as well when truly I would prefer him to wipe EVERY SINGLE TIME).  I'm sure God says keep going Marianne when he looks down in the morning to see me reading the Book of Mormon aloud as husband and children lie in various states of awake and sleep around me on my bed.  I'm sure he laughs when he hears Ben the Hen bedtimes stories I tell just for Ben's sake.  It's one of the few bonding opportunities that child allows me.  The tales are absurd, like much of what Ben does.  I'm sure Ben makes God laugh a lot.  And I'm sure that God himself feels immensely proud when he hears each person in our house, especially Lucas and I (the examples of all things), say I'm sorry, make up, forgive, say it's okay and I love you.  Because all of these things are what make home a real, raw, and safe place, a place that you want to come back to after a hard day or a hard life.  I want my home to always be, if nothing else, a safe place full of love, as little judgment as possible, and occasionally peace for anyone who is here.  Because sometimes home and mother feel like and can mean the same thing, and that's the kind of mom I want to be to anyone who needs it but especially my beautiful, quirky, sigh-inspiring chickadees.