Like every other kid, I made gifts for Mother’s Day that consisted of finger paints on construction paper, creations consisting of popsicle sticks or uncooked noodles and shaped lumps of clay that purportedly served a purpose. Many of these items survived for many years, a testament to maternal sensitivities more than any intrinsic artistry.
In time, these handmade offerings transitioned to purchased presents, flowers, chocolates, greeting cards, phone calls and texts, with the occasional brunch. I did my part to sustain the Mother’s Day economy, which now exceeds $35 billion in consumer spending.
But these opportunities are diminishing.
In 2011, my mother fell down a set of stairs, struck her head and suffered traumatic brain injuries. She never regained consciousness and, after six months on life while we prayed for a miracle recovery, she died. She was 76.
My stepmother is still alive, but struggling with the accumulating burdens of living into her eighth decade. She suffers from multiple chronic conditions — four in 10 American adults do — and some are life-threatening. But she fights on, meeting with doctors to hear about novel treatments and possible clinical trials. She is tired, but determined.
My mother-in-law is in her 80s too, and also experiencing the inevitable depredations of a long life, from progressive physical ailments to age-related cognitive decline. She has good days and she has bad days, maybe more of the latter as time es, but like my stepmother, she’s hanging in there even if she doesn’t quite realize it. She is small, but mighty.
So Mother’s Day has become less of an obligatory, mark-your-calendar celebration and more of an increasingly bittersweet event, one that will eventually stop happening altogether. Whatever our relationships were or are with our mothers, they hold unmatched significance and relevance to who we are and how we have shaped and live our lives.
Sure, fathers are important, a fact I often remind my sons of when they are planning how best to love and honor their mother. Good for them! But our mothers are the people who brought each of us into the world. Everyone else was a bystander.
“Life began with waking up and loving my mother’s face,” wrote the 19th-century English novelist and poet George Eliot, the pen name for Mary Anne Evans (1819-1880), who had no children of her own, but was the loving stepmother to her partner’s children.
On Mother’s Day, stop and think about what you are doing or not doing. Reach out to your mother. Take a moment to share a laugh or memory. Look at her face. Hold her hand. Give her a hug. You have one mother. Well, sometimes you are blessed with a few. But you won’t have them forever.
Almost no one determines their own fate. We watch our parents age at different speeds, in different ways. Our parting may happen suddenly without warning or slowly and painfully.
Make the most of this moment in whatever way best expresses your feelings.
Then do it again tomorrow and the next day.
That’s what your mom would tell you.
LaFee is vice president of communications at Sanford Burnham Prebys and lives in Point Loma.
