Momories

I used to hate Mother's Day. I used to ditch church on Mother's Day. The day was nothing but pain for me. I couldn't give birth. My first attempt to adopt was denied because I was depressed because I couldn't have children. At church, they'd hand out roses every Mother's Day to every female in the congretation, and all I could see or feel was thorns. My birth mom had abandoned my family when I was four. My paternal grandmother raised us for the next five years. She, to me, was my mom. Yet I would wait at the front window nearly every night for the first year or so for my birth mom to come home. She never returned. There had been no contact whatsoever. She'd never asked how her three very young kids were doing. She never sent birthday or Christmas cards. She never asked our favorite color. She never asked about school. She just vanished.

I got a new mom, along with new siblings, about five years later. I was SO excited to have a mommy again! My earliest memory of her (because she and my dad eloped, and even my grandmother didn't know until after it was done!) is her singing to me one night when she discovered I was crying myself to sleep. We'd moved far from my grandma, who had taught me to crochet and instilled my values and probably a lot of my personality. In my young head, I'd lost another mom, even though I'd gained a new one.

That autumn night, my new mom soothed my broken heart and made me feel loved. My pre-teen turning point, however, was the early summer day the following year when she, my new sister (then half my age) and I were in the grocery store together. My mom was holding my sister's hand as we traversed the aisles. I slipped my hand into her other hand, and she quickly pulled away as if I had cooties. Sadly, that moment defined our relationship throughout my teens. I wish I had understood then what I know now.

Other key experiences contributed to my teen angst. My dad worked two jobs while putting himself through college while my grandma took care of us. We kids rarely got to see him during the week. I'd poured breakfast cereal and made sandwiches for lunch for my dad and my little brothers on weekends the whole time he was a single parent. After he remarried, I wasn't needed anymore. I was too young then to understand it was good to go back to being a kid. My dad had called me Cinderelly for as long as I could remember, and suddenly, I seemed to always be in trouble for being "too much like" my birth mom, whom I didn't even know.

I was too young to understand what it must have been like to take in three new kids, two of whom were too old for the new, very proper, Southern mom to have given birth to. I was too young to understand how this new mom might have felt when hiring a teenage babysitter for her growing family instead of trusting pre-teen and then young teen me with the responsibility. I was too young to understand how she must have felt when my dad would take me instead of her up in the helicopters to help test the radios he installed. I was too young to understand why so much praise and encouragement was heaped upon my younger siblings who achieved average grades while I received no recognition for perfect grades. Then there's that whole hormone thing, plus the still-gnawing rejection by my birth mom.

My new mom and I reconciled as I was moving out following my high school graduation. We were arguing as I moved my stuff into my car, heading out for my new life. Somehow, the heated conversation accidentally stumbled into something that helped us both immediately realize our main hurdle all those years had been jealousy. We looked each other in the eye and tears began spilling down our cheeks as we hugged and vocally shared sincere apologies and how much we love and appreciate each other. We've been the closest of friends ever since.

When my birth mom finally contacted me a whole three decades after abandoning us, I was almost immediately overwhelmed by her voiced selfishness. I'd spent so much of my childhood making excuses for her choice. I could not imagine anyone leaving a six-month-old baby, much less totally writing off the rest of us. I'd fantasized she must be too embarassed to tell what must be her new family about us and what she'd done. There was no new family. She'd delighted in breaking up marriages. She abhorred commitment. Her parents had politely stepped back when my dad remarried because they were so horrified by what she'd done and because they didn't want to cause problems for his new family. Not only had I lost a mom; I'd lost my maternal grandparents, too.

Upon meeting her in person and hearing her story, I was further devastated. She had, no doubt, married too young, but after abandoning us, she pursued only what she wanted, never looking back. I was stunned to learn she couldn't remember my youngest brother's birthday (which was just a couple of days after her own), and that she couldn't remember his name or gender. This was the woman I had grown up fantasizing about finding one day. Among the big reveals she shared during that first phone conversation, she proudly told me about conducting a "funeral" for a spider she accidentally washed down the drain. All I could think was she'd taken no such deep interest in the lives of her children until they were too old to need her anymore. Difficult pill to swallow.

About a decade after meeting my birth mom, I finally found her parents. She'd known where they were, but wanted no contact with them, and she likely knew my brothers and I would have a better relationship with them than we had with her. I had to find my maternal grandparents on my own. That's a much easier task now, but back before the internet and social media, finding a lost relative required Herculean effort.

I was an adoptive mom by the time I met my maternal grandparents. For the remaining few years of their lives, they were so thrilled to be grandparents to all their new great grandkids. During my only in-person visit, I noticed the huge gap of our lives missing from all the photos throughout their house. A whole wall was devoted to my younger siblings and I until I was about nine. The rest of the house was filled with fresh, framed photos of their now grown grandkids and all their great grandkids. The fridge was literally wallpapered with photos I'd sent.

I was in the habit of totally ignoring Mother's Day (except for cards and flowers to my grandmothers and new mom) throughout my own motherhood. I'd spent more years as a foster parent than as an adoptive parent, and foster parents get no parental consideration. Post-adoption, my kids would sometimes acknowledge me, but often, it was a difficult holiday for them, too, so I tried to keep them distracted. Moab provided awesome Mother's Day alternatives.

Both my kids took permanent unauthorized field trips before they reached adulthood. (They ran away.) Both returned to the lifestyles of their birth parents. Both of them avoided contact with me for many years because they knew I would not approve of the choices they were making. Both had experienced severe bond breaks during their own childhoods, so they didn't understand that a mother's love... THIS mother's love... never ends. This further fermented my Mother's Day negativity. Both kids are trying their best to rebuild their relationships with me now, and I'm building wonderful relationships with their kids. I'm rediscovering the joy of motherhood through the next generation.

I've always loved to write. I've often moonlighted, often as a newspaper/magazine stringer, to supplement my income. I was preparing an anti-Mother's Day humor rant for a favorite publication more than a decade ago when I stumbled upon a pro-motherhood submission they'd published the previous year. The author had experienced rejections and sour milk on both sides of the parenting fence over the course of several decades but shared such tender and heartwarming encouragement. I decided I didn't want to poke painful fun at motherhood anymore. I can't remember the direct quote, but this particular writer said something to the effect of, "If you can't honor your own mother or motherhood, can you at least honor the motherhood of an influential person in your life?" Such as a friend or a neighbor...

That was something I absolutely could do. It was something I had been doing all along. I didn't like the holiday, much the way many singles hate Valentine's Day and the way some people (me included) despise the commercialism of Christmas. But I'd never forgotten to honor my new mom on her special day. I'd never neglected my grandmothers. I'd even written notes I'd hoped I'd one day be able to present to my absent grandmother (which I got to do just a few years earlier). I've not been as shy about celebrating Mother's Day ever since. And yes, I've even attended church on Mother's Day a few times. There are still uncomfortable moments, but mostly, I realize there are endless generations of good moms and happy families, and countless examples of selfless mothering. That's where I choose to focus my attention now.

The video at the beginning of today's post reminded me of my own family history, cobwebs and all. It helped me remember how much I love my new mom and my adopted kids. It helped me appreciate sacrifice. It helped me let go of bitterness I didn't even realize might still be lurking in the shadowy corners of my heart. It helped me remember how thankful I am I was able to be a mom, even if I didn't give birth. It helped me remember how grateful I am to have contact with my kids and grandkids. It helped me embrace family my history fresh and new.

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