My mother always said she hated Mother’s Day. Like a few other women over 50, members of the baby boomer generation, I grew up in a household where Mother’s Day was looked down upon as something artificial, created by marketers in order to sell products. So, I believed that when/if I had kids, I would probably continue to look down my nose at Mother’s Day—and would say to my kids the kind of thing my mother used to say to me: “Please don’t give me anything on Mother’s Day. Every day of the year is Mother’s Day for me. You certainly don’t have to prove your love for me on some artificially-selected day!”
When our first child was born, and my first official Mother’s Day rolled around, I was surprised to see how happy I was to get flowers from my husband. But my real change of heart didn’t happen until those years when my children’s pre-school teachers (bless their wonderful hearts) started helping my children to create little Mother’s Day presents. I remember when my oldest daughter brought home her first creation: a big flower made out of paper that opened up to reveal all kinds of nice words about mothers. (The poems were furnished by the teacher, but the flower itself was cut out by my daughter.) I found myself having to sit down—because I was crying! I couldn’t believe it: I was a complete sap! The marketers had won!
Give Mom the gift of love with a photo book filled with loved ones and cherished memories.
But what’s a girl to do? Just consider these: the Mother’s Day in 1992 when our third child, Becky, was born—right on the very day! Or the time when my son drew me a heart, that was signed, “I love you, Mama, Love, Parker Hatley.” Or the Mother’s Day when my youngest, Josie, brought me a bouquet of paper flowers attached to straws (that are still sitting on my desk at work). Or the more recent time when my adult daughter, Lizzie, brought me a little sign for my desk: “I smile because you’re my mother. I laugh because there is nothing you can do about it.”
Or this year: when all four of them put their hard-earned money together to buy me flowers, a gift certificate for Ultimate Ice Cream (how well they know me!) and a locket with their pictures in it.
So, I’m in: I love Mother’s Day. Every year, I am caught, again—not by the sappy ads on t.v. (although I have to admit that when I was pregnant, I even cried over these)—but by the loving actions of my kids. I’m a complete convert to Mother’s Day. I say: Hurray for Mother’s Day! Down with disbelievers! I guess every good thing has to also have some accompanying hype. Just consider Christmas!
A follow-up: I’m happy to say that I stopped doing everything my mother told me to do when I was a teenager—and one of my rebellious acts was to bring her flowers on Mother’s Day. Although she still pooh-poohed the day, she admitted she liked the flowers.
I wish I’d rebelled sooner.