Opinion | How to be motherless on Mother’s Day
Being motherless isn’t easy, but there is one day of the year that is harder than most, and this is how I deal with it. Photos courtesy of Tikva Velazquez
It is hard to avoid the cynicism that drags on the coattails of “Hallmark Holidays.”
The most obvious example that comes to mind is Valentine’s Day, filled with red and pink cards, cardboard chocolate assortments and abundant flower bouquets, all sold and marketed in the name of love.
Tikva Velazquez, features & entertainment staff writer
The single person’s cynicism is palpable on this day in February, and the whole event quickly becomes the bane of their existence — until, of course, they are single no more. Because of this cynicism that surrounds it, Valentine’s doesn’t pose an emotional dilemma, especially because its roots can be traced back to a saint and Christianity.
The same cannot be said for other “Hallmark Holidays,” and as Mother’s Day bears down, it’s time we address the stress this holiday creates — for those who don’t understand, but more importantly, for those who do.
Since my mother passed away when I was 6 years old, Mother’s Day has been handled delicately, as if the very porcelain lining of my being would crack on a typically warm and sunny day in May.
My grandmother favored two avenues for Mother’s Day. We would visit the grave my mother wasn’t buried in — it was only a communal tomb her name was scrawled on, her real remains sitting in a wooden box in our house. Or we would go to the park where my parents were married and have a picnic.
But after beginning my time at university, saddled with a hearty amount of freedom, I could choose how to celebrate Mother’s Day. The reality of this day and what it means became terrifyingly apparent, so strategies and plans were quickly drawn up.
Other families have brunch, a spa day or breakfast in bed. I on the other hand know for a fact, that at some point in the day I will cry. This is the only Mother’s Day ritual I stand by.
My therapist once recommended that I “mother myself.” I’m still not quite sure what this means. Her explanations were unhelpful and resulted in me awkwardly blurting out, “How would I know how to mother myself when I never had a mother?”
But the concept starts making sense with time. If you’re like me and this holiday is particularly dreadful, take some time to care for yourself. Eat good food and do something you enjoy.
You can also pretend the day doesn’t exist.
Since my mother passed away when I was 6 years old, Mother’s Day has been handled delicately, as if the very porcelain lining of my being would crack on a typically warm and sunny day in May.
There are degrees to this strategy — you can acknowledge the day exists once, then go about business as usual. Or you can deny it altogether. No matter what, avoid social media.
Previously I’ve woken up, basking in golden sunlight, wiping sleep from my eyes, only to open Instagram to find a lovely “I love you, Mom!” post that had me chucking my phone into the wall. Avoid this at all costs.
Whether or not you want to spend this day with people is a personal choice. Many friends will likely have plans, lunches with their mothers or picnics with extended family. And they won’t know what to do with you.
Should they invite you? Text you? Should they blow off their family to spend time with you on the worst day of the year, for you at least?
There are people I know I cannot spend this day with. I cannot spend the day with people who stumble over their words or who do not understand the severity of this grief that has taken up permanent residence in my chest. I do not have time for such tomfoolery.
So, I plan to spend Mother’s Day alone. With the impending arrival of finals and graduation, this doesn’t seem so depressing. It feels natural even.
I will probably sleep in and cook breakfast — pancakes with strawberries, something comforting. I’ll read a book or watch television, I’ll tuck my phone away, only using it to send texts to my surrogate mothers.
I have this vivid picture of what this day might look like for me in 10 to 20 years. I am married, and my husband has one of those families who likes to have big dinners and throw brunches.
On Mother’s Day, they decorate the table with pink roses, and everyone gets dressed up. My mother-in-law is doted upon, the other mothers joyous, and I join them, my very own kids giving me handmade presents with painted hand prints and scribbled “I love you” messages.
At night, the festivities behind us, I climb into bed with my husband as we talk about taking the kids to school tomorrow and the stupid fight his brother and sister-in-law are in.
Once settled under the covers and our heads on the pillows, he puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says. And then I cry, the gates break and the tears free fall. He pulls me into his arms as the sobs begin.
Because it is Mother’s Day, and this is how I always celebrate it.