Mother’s Day has simple and good intentions, but for many it is a difficult day. Many feel unworthy of it, and many wonder why there’s no day for them. Indeed, the cards and commercials can make it seem like a day for none of us—for who could be so perfect as these sanitized, sparkling, fake families?
In the midst of the myth of Hallmark perfection, let us also remember those often hurt or forgotten on Mother’s Day:
The women who have lost a child--born or unborn, young or old, an only or one of many, recent or long ago but not forgotten . . .
The women and men who have lost or never known their mother . . .
The women who want a child but are still waiting, and those who will never be able . . .
The women who want to adopt but are still waiting, and those who will never be able . . .
The women whose family members don't recognize their motherhood or children as "real" because they came via adoption or marriage or they don't look the same . . .
The mothers who placed their children for adoption and struggle to find their place in their lives, and the mothers who did so secretly and silently endure the condemnation of "I don't understand how any woman could do that" from those who have never even tried to understand . . .
The mothers unknown around the world whose children have journeyed to America without them, their identities lost and too often forgotten . . .
The single mother who feels blamed for society's ills . . .
The lesbian woman whose motherhood is scorned as second class . . .
The woman who regrets her abortion . . .
The woman in the depths of postpartum depression who despite her best efforts, at this moment regrets her baby . . .
The women whose daughters endure abuse and whose sons rot in jail . . .
The women and children and orphans who live on $1 a day while we spend $1.5 billion on throwaway cards . . .
The women who are not called mom but take the time to bake her brownies, go to his games, staff the nursery, take her underwear shopping, vote in school board elections, send birthday cards, attend graduations, chaperone trips, walk to the well, and work for peace . . .
Women who feel they don’t fit, women of complex stories, women of the real world . . .
This day may not be easy for you, but you are remembered, and you too are worthy of honor.
To all the women who have loved me and those I love—thank you for blessing my life and our world with your love.
Partly inspired by this blog post: "For the Childless Woman on Mother's Day" by author Vinita Hampton Wright
Happy Easter from the Wetzels!
From Joyce Hollyday, “An Invitation,” Bread and Wine: Readings for Lent and Easter
Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice. Justice at its best is love correcting everything that stands against love.
Sunday was a big day since Aaron preached at church and we had the Frontline party at night (with the watching of some sport in between, though it did not really resemble pro football). The last couple years we've had a progressive dinner for the kids at a few church families' houses, but there are getting to be just too darn many of them. So we rented out a great little coffeeshop/restaurant and had a really nice dinner there. The helpers from church decked it out gorgeous, the food was great, and it was a nice intimate (okay, pushing crowded) setting for a little Charlie Brown Christmas and singing. I think the kids enjoyed it; some of them never go out for a dinner that nice. Heck, rarely do I--it was pretty darn nice!
Do you think he does?
Do you know how much your Daddy loves you? You can’t possibly. You don’t hear him whisper “She is so adorable!” when you’re chattering away to yourself or see the goofy grin on his face when you hug him after he’s been gone. He loves you more than anyone and anything. And you think he’s the greatest thing in the world.
You had another father too, in Ethiopia. Even though it’s easier for me to imagine your mother, I try to picture you with your father, and I can’t help but wonder if you’d be a Daddy’s Girl with him too. I think so. Even though we don’t know anything about him, I’m sure he loved you too. I’m sure that if he could see you now, he’d be awestruck at how much you’ve grown and how beautiful you are. If he could carry you on his shoulders and teach you new things, his chest would swell and his face would beam with pride. If you could come running to him, his face would light up and his worries would fade away.
If he were here with you, he’d make you laugh like no one else can, and you’d bring the biggest smile to his face. You’d be your daddy’s little girl . . . just as you are, here, screaming at tickles and running for hugs, your daddy’s precious, treasured girl.
Both your fathers have blessed me so much. I’m thankful today.
Happy Mother’s Day—to me. How odd.
I am getting used to the idea that I am a mother, although once in a while it still catches me by surprise to be awakened by a baby crying over a monitor or to realize just how many diapers I’ve changed over the last year when my previous record was, well, zero. But Mother’s Day was never a day for me. It wasn’t even a day I particularly wanted to be for me. I have usually felt more aware of how awkward and painful it can be for those without children than able to imagine myself accepting a hand-drawn card from a toddler of my own. I think being married but not having kids for years made me a bit more aware of how hard it can be for some to always feel locked out of the Hallmark store (and I hope I don’t forget this now).
It’s not that I was reluctant for our daughter to join our life or that I don’t enjoy being a mom, because I wasn’t and I do. It’s just that I never had a clear picture of myself at this place in life, a fuzzy dream in my mind beckoning me Someday this will be you. I was never one of those girls always looking forward to the day they would get married and have children. I remember a friend dreaming out loud about graduating from high school so she and her much older boyfriend could get married and thinking Are you crazy? You’re thinking about that now, in sophomore literature class? I wasn’t opposed to it in some kind of independent girl with something to prove way; I just couldn't picture myself that far ahead and didn’t think motherhood was a foregone conclusion, although I didn’t necessarily picture something else for myself either.
Then Aaron and I got married, young, and there were the requisite jokes and questions about when are you going to start cranking out the kids? and we’d defer, graciously and vaguely, since we could honestly say that he had to finish school before anything else and maybe in five years we’d start thinking about it since we’d still be crazy young. Five years came and went, and schooling came and went and came and went and finally got finished and went away. I started telling people that every time they asked when we were going to have kids, our even considering it got deferred by two months, and we already had a two-year backlog from being asked so much. (I really think that unless you’re close or the context of the conversation indicates the person would like to share their plans, it’s a pretty rude question that makes a lot of assumptions—namely that everyone should and wants to have children and that your question isn’t stabbing me in the heart because we want to but haven’t been able to, which was never the case for us, but please, people, be sensitive to others for whom it might be, especially on Mother’s Day.)
Then we got kind of busy moving our childless selves to the Oregon coast and feeling like this was a calling that we were sure of and that was keeping our two-person family pretty busy already. Meanwhile some kind of silent fertility bomb was apparently set off back where we came from, because our friends there started getting pregnant, and having babies, and getting pregnant again. And asking us if we were ever going to join in.
I don’t want to get into the whole thing here and now, but let me just say that that question is not as easy as it might seem when you have a genetically passed medical condition in the family, especially after bad things have happened in the family that remind you what that once-easy-to-ignore condition can do. And so we continued to defer and dance around the question, though we danced a little closer and a little more often.
How we got from there to adopting from Ethiopia is a book unto itself, but obviously the first decision that had to be made was yes, we want to be parents. Yes, I want to be a mom. What was the tipping point?
I finally felt like I could be a good mom. It had nothing to do with being around babies, as I remained blissfully-yet-terrified-ly ignorant of everything that entailed until we brought ours home. My transformation came from teenagers. Our girls. It came from moments in the kitchen making them snacks and making them laugh, challenging their teen psuedo-logic and asking about exams, listening to their complaints and refereeing their bickering. It came from marveling at these hearts and minds so fully formed before I ever knew them yet changing before my very eyes and suddenly feeling in my heart I want to share a whole life with a person, to know a child from their cradle to my grave.
So it is that I find myself this year as the one being wished well and honored on Mother’s Day. And I appreciate that, I do. Being a mother is important and tiring and just plain damn hard work sometimes. Many say it’s the greatest thing a woman can do—but let’s remember, being a mother is not the only way to love. My mother-love is exercised every day now, but it was there long before, as it is seen in each of us every time we step outside of ourselves to care for someone else. That is mother-love, no matter whose child receives it.
And so today I want to celebrate, thank, and affirm all the women who nurture—and isn’t that all of us?—and even especially those who nurture those who are not “their own.” Loving my daughter is easy, most of the time. I’m a mom now. It’s what we do. It’s my role, my job, my identity, my responsibility, my joy. But to serve others so consistently, so selflessly, so freely? That is hard, and I fall short. I am blessed to have so many who love and give so extravagantly in my life as an example. They are the ones who have planted the seeds of love that are bearing fruit in my mothering now.
I pray I may be like them in remembering, even as I fill my home with the love of a family, to open the doors and let others come in and be loved—for it is in loving that we find love, in giving that we find abundance, in seeing others that we recognize ourselves, in sharing mother-love that we become our Father’s children.
Does a husband make a woman into a wife? Does the birth of a child make her a mother? What lies sleeping inside a daughter of Eve that waits to be called out by one or the other or both? . . .
Could a mother’s love also lurk inside the heart of a woman who nurtures a stubborn garden, or a book, or a classroom of other people’s children? Is it mother-love to cheer the efforts of an awkward teenager’s attempt to serve a volleyball, or to set a perfect table and prepare a favorite meal (whether it’s hot dogs or homemade pasta) for a dear friend’s birthday? To craft a poem or tell a story that will delight a small handful of people, or even just one? Couldn’t that be a kind of mother-love too?
Does a wife’s heart beat in the woman who believes resolutely in someone else’s dream when the rest of the world says “get serious”? Who listens for the meaning behind the words “I’m tired” or “I’d rather not talk about it, that’s all”? Is it wife-love to overlook an unthinking slight or to remember that someone else likes chewy cookies best, instead of the crispy ones that you prefer? To stay still and let silence speak when words can’t say enough?
Maybe the same kind of love is there for the spending whether it’s focused on one man, or four children, or a roomful of old friends, or a stranger. Maybe it’s not lost in the spending, either, but strengthened and sharpened and multiplied.
Somewhere in the after-Christmas blur, our little girl turned one. This really caught me off guard since I was just getting used to the concept that I had a baby—now I have a one-year-old? Say what?! I kept waffling on whether to party or not to party. Fortunately, our less celebration-challenged friends at church ensured the presence of cake and cards, and on her birthday we were able to go out for dinner with friends and come back home for banana cream pie (Daddy’s favorite, why not?). Her favorite gift, despite the fine variety she received, is the kitty card from Grandma and Grandpa H. It’s sitting on a shelf so she can see it and declare its name: "Kheeeey!" Silly me to ever thinks she needs anything more than the sight of an actual or two-dimensional cat.
Birthday dinner—high five!
At church she started out pretty dainty with the cake, but in the end she had a good amount of the brightest purple frosting imaginable on her hands, face, hair, eyelashes, and clothing. (Sorry, the only pictures are still on our friend’s camera.) With the pie, she wasted no time.
Pie for One.
This is a messy game to play with a mouthful of pudding.
But he started it!
I have already detailed the travel endurance trials portion of our journey and the physical and emotional recovery period. I should note that once we got back into our routine, Anna got back into her easygoing nature, although we did have one heckuva long night last week with a very unhappy, nonsleeping, teething babe. Not that more teeth have made it through yet.
As far as what all our trip included, well, it could be summed up in the word PEOPLE. People people people everywhere wanted to meet Anna. And meet her they did. With our Christmas Eve travel delays, we had no day to decompress before we hit the ground running. Christmas Day is always a full one for us since we stay at my parents’ house, go to Aaron’s parents’ for Christmas with the immediate family, and then go to his grandparents’ for the big extended family dinner and gift exchange (and wrapping paper whipping contest).
We went to his parents’ as usual and had time with them plus Aaron’s brothers and their lovely ladies and daughters. Anna and her two-year-old cousin Autumn shared a sweet minute of holding onto each other and staring and then a big kiss from Autumn. This year things were a bit different in that we had dinner there instead of with everyone at his grandparents’—the big dinner was called off because of his grandmother’s health. Grandma S. was diagnosed with cancer not long ago and sadly it is a type for which they can do basically nothing at this point. She is at home receiving care from family and hospice. We did all gather at their house for time together and gifts, though, and I suspect that Grandma summoned great energy for and from having everyone together, as you probably would not have guessed she was sick had you not known. She is a wonderfully kind, sweet, yet strong woman. She tells us each time she sees us and in notes that she prays for us every single day and always wants to know specifically how to pray. I know she prays for Anna too so we were grateful that she and Grandpa both were able to meet her that day.
For once I was grateful the drive from there back to my parents’ is long since Anna needed the nap—more family waiting to meet her! My aunt, uncle, and Grandma H. had driven over from the Detroit area for the day (my brother and his wife had arrived the day before). Grandma wanted to hold that baby on her lap right away, finally! (Anna is the first great-grandchild on my side.) We had dessert and there were plenty of packages for Anna to rip open, now that she was an old pro at that game. My parents got her a walker/ride-on lion which makes music and emits a comical giggle/roar. She bends her knees and bops her booty as soon as she hears it, and she figured out fast that it’s pretty fun to shove around. Busy day!
The next day we didn’t have to drive anywhere, but more family descended: grandparents, aunt, and cousins from my mom’s side also arrived from the east (though being warned in a dream, some returned home in other directions). Papa wore his natty holly bow tie, my cousins as usual brought great comic relief, and my aunt provided lemon tarts and made a fantastic Ethiopia-to-U.S. map wall hanging for Anna. My mother tricked us all into decorating cookies in the traditional retro-psychedelic style and ridiculous quantities for which we are known.
The next few days were a little more relaxed, attempting to leave Anna time for at least one good nap a day (normally she is still a two-napper). We had meals out (or in) with friends and spent time with our families. Friday we got some beautiful fresh snow. Saturday night we were at FunnyWriterMommy and Beau’s house and their two-year-old was showing Anna how to run around like a crazy girl. For about a week Anna had been taking a few steps between us or objects when coaxed, but suddenly she saw that big girl walking around with a toy and thought I’m going after her! She took off on her own and then got brave to walk farther and farther distances across rooms. She loved practicing and soon really got the hang of it. Now she’s walking all over the house all the time like an old pro (okay, like a clutzy old pro who falls down a lot, but falls like an old pro too). Wow! (And yikes!)
By Saturday night Anna was getting my cold and didn’t sleep well because she was congested. She kept waking up needing to be patted or picked up to go back to sleep, but then it would only last a half hour (hmm, come to think of it, she gave us a reenactment of this last night). Finally we found our infant motrin and brought her into bed with us, and we she slept the rest of the night (guess whose pillow she always drifts onto?). We decided we needed to skip church and get some rest, though, since we had a big evening ahead. That day was the worst I felt throughout my cold. Anna perked up fine though.
Sunday night was the big “come meet Anna” open house there at my parents’ house. This really turned out to be a good idea since a lot of people were able to come and we could not possibly have seen them all otherwise. There were tons of kids running all over the house too—good thing Grandma seems to have a toy factory in her basement!
New Year’s Eve we had one last hurrah with old friends. The sweetness makes it that much harder to say good-bye. It was good we didn’t stay any later, though, because it was snowing like heck all the way home. Watched the ball drop at my parents’ but should have focused more on packing, because the next morning got frantic (sorry again Mom and Dad). It was kind of like how we left Ethiopia (yes, that tale will come in time). All to get to the airport and stand in a line for an hour . . . which brings us back to our return home (brings us back to 'Doh!') and the end of this scintillating saga. What travel or celebration tales will the next installment hold?
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