I've been thinking a lot about Mother's Day this year, largely because one of my children is going through a difficult time in her life and so, consequently, am I.
I'm sad. She's sad. It's no fun for anybody.
So I've been trying to decide how to celebrate Mother's Day.
The immature, baby me wants to abandon the cause and run out into the desert to hide.
The more responsible and grown-up me thinks I should stick around and glory in the beautiful children and grandchildren who bless my life every hour and every day.
I know deep down that each child loves me and I love each of them.
But Mother's Day highlights the mothers who don't honestly exist...at least, I've yet to meet one who feels she qualifies.
I, of course, regret that I wasn't a perfect mom, that I sometimes yelled and often cried.
I wish I was that perfect lady who always had a hot meal ready, the house clean, the laundry washed and folded and enough energy to help them finish their homework even when it was 10:30 p.m.
Instead, I was more often the bag lady mom, running the kids to school with my hair all askew and my pajama bottoms dragging in the snow.
I was often late with dinner and short on temper.
I would berate the child coming too slowly out of class to the car.
I would be openly dismayed when we discovered the note in the backpack saying there was a science class project due in the morning.
It would irk me to get the call for another three dozen brownies for a class party.
I complained about going on field trips.
I loved and still love my six children. I love my six stepchildren and all 33 grandchildren.
I would do just about anything for them.
And I treasure their drawings, their handmade cards, the gifts picked out with care and a quarter.
I think being a mother and a grandmother is the very best thing to be.
I just wish we could all skip Mother's Day.
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