Worthless Mother's Day

I wish I were writing this to say how beautiful our Mother’s Day was, but I’m not. It was an all-round horrid day. I spent most of the day crying, for one reason or another and when I wasn’t wallowing in destructive self-pity, I was doing household chores. The only thing I asked for was a break; not having to do everything for one day, not stressing that I won’t get it all done before heading back to the grind of the work week. It didn’t happen. If I had to sum up Mother’s Day in one word it would be worthless. That is how I felt.

 

The night before Mother’s Day I went to see a movie and then went grocery shopping afterwards because A) it hadn’t gotten done earlier in the day, B) we needed things, and C) it is such a luxury to not have to grocery shop with little people yelling, tantrum-ing, touching things or demanding various items. While browsing the meat department, my phone rang with a name I don’t usually see. It was Primero’s aunt. She called to beg me to allow her to pick up Primero so she could take him to her house to be with his mom and siblings on Mother’s Day. I expressed annoyance in the poor planning, only calling me at 10:30 the night before and the presumption that we had no plans for Mother’s Day. I told her we had plans to go to brunch with my parents and I would have Primero call her when I got home and we could discuss it.

 

As it turned out, I wasn’t able to get reservations for the brunch we wanted. My parents had gotten new phones which made communication exceptionally difficult because they didn’t have their new phones set up and their old phones weren’t really working. After Primero revealed he was leaving a little after 11 and not coming back all day, I tried to salvage something with my mom. When I finally got her on the phone she told me she didn’t want to go to dinner, she didn’t want me to come up and make anything and basically she didn’t want to see me. Me, being the stubborn cuss I am, decided to order food from Panera’s and take it to the farm in the afternoon, sans Primero.

 

When I got to the farm with two children who did not nap long enough, I discovered my brother was there. Apparently, he wanted to do some work out in the woods, clearing the invasive stuff out or something like that, but it kept raining off and on, thus preventing him from working at a steady pace. While waiting out the showers, he dominated all conversation making it hard for me to even get my parents to sit down and eat the expensive food that was still hot but cooling quickly. After we ate, I helped my mom download an ap on her phone to find ringtones and went to check on my honey bees, discovering one hive died less than a week after I brought them home. I gave my mom the scarf and gift card I bought her and left her to listen to all the funny ringtones on her phone.

 

When I got home Primero had left a card and little glass knick-knack sitting in the living room for me. I wish I could say I accepted his card and gift graciously, but I didn’t. I had spent the whole day feeling worthless. I felt so unimportant to Primero. Not only did he leave, but he didn’t say anything to me in the morning, other than that he was leaving. No hug. No I love you. Nothing. I’m so worthless I don’t even deserve a hug. Then, because I didn’t just make reservations and hope my parents were amenable to them, I’m a worthless daughter. My efforts to see my mom and spend time with her were rebuffed. I’m not good enough. It’s not good enough to just see me on Mother’s Day. My feelings were raw, ravaged and aching just like my puffy red eyes. I felt like nothing, like less than nothing. Seeing the gift at the end of the day, it felt like a sad, little consolation prize. Adding salt to my festering wounds, the card was addressed “To [my name] the other mother.” I sobbed as I bathed the little ones and Primero bristled at my Snapchat post, pointing out how painful it was to be ignored all day and then called “other.”

 

Eventually, we talked. After we shouted. But, at the moment, I feel like a little bit of me is broken. Primero was angry that it didn’t seem like I accepted his apology Sunday night. I explained it like this: If I punch you in the face, it will still hurt even after I apologize for punching you. I feel like every Mother’s Day is worse, with this one taking the entire cake. If you’ve ever heard of The Five Love Languages, mine is spending time with me or doing something for me. I think that is fairly evident in what I’ve written about the day. It means more to me than some little trinket or flowery prose or even some big gesture (which I would never expect). Wow, you took the time to be with me – that means something! So, to have Primero do the total opposite, well it just hurt and hurt and hurt some more.

 

I’m glad the day is behind us. With Primero, I have hope we can repair the damage done to our relationship. With my mother, hope is fleeting because somehow I’ve become a bad daughter in her mind. She fell over herself praising my brother for fixing her computer, after months of complaining it isn’t working. She even wrote a long post of praise on Facebook. Bringing her dinner, a scarf, and Target gift card couldn’t hold a candle to fixing her computer and therefore got no mention, honorable or otherwise. Somehow, my black sheep mostly-estranged brother has become my mother’s golden child, her surprising current favorite. Usually, it is between my sister and I, depending on who has done what, but apparently we are such horrible children she had to go with my brother. The same brother who made her cry every year for Christmas (for YEARS) because he obstinately refused to show up.

 

The only highlight to my day on Sunday was talking to my sister. We spoke briefly and I outlined the issue with Mother’s Day and specifically with mom that day. We both guessed she wanted to brush me off so she could have our father take her somewhere for dinner so when someone wished her a happy Mother’s Day she could bemoan the fact that her awful children couldn’t find it in their hearts to spend time with her. She never bothered to thank me or make any acknowledgement of the food I brought for dinner. My father thanked me. But, it proved my sister was right when she told me, “You have to go we both know you do. Just know it will suck and she won’t be grateful. I’m sorry you have to take one for the team, but I thank you.” The solidarity in knowing she gets it helped me drag myself through the motions. My sister isn’t a mother and has no plans to be a mother, but she has compassion and that is a beautiful thing.