An honest card is hard to find.

I’ve been thinking about Mother’s Day a great deal this week. Part of it, is that the dreaded holiday is nearing. Part of it, is finding a card my son wrote to his uncle when he was just 5 (I never mailed it, because Boy Wonder had taped his favorite piece of crayon to it, and I didn’t have the heart to let him part with it.) while I was sorting through old photos. How quickly time passes.

I’m not a fan of the holiday, though I understand Mother’s Day means something to most of you. And I say, “Go, Celebrate.” Just don’t ladle guilt on your children when they don’t live up to your expectations. Because eventually, there will come a time when you are not the center of their universe. That’s a good thing. Embrace it—rejoice in it, you did this! You reared your children to adulthood and autonomy and the ability to be parents themselves.

But for me, Mother’s Day isn’t filled with flowers and cards and I’m totally OK with that. I have my reasons. I don’t want card-stock with frothy statements declaring the love I experience everyday. The death of a relationship with my own mother coupled with my years with infertility have certainly tainted my experience of the holiday. But I can remember standing in the card aisle, even as a teenager, reading over poetry and realizing that I couldn’t, not with a straight face, actually say those things to my own mother. I remember feeling so alone. Like my experience wasn’t validated. Every softly pink card seemed to indict my experience as if to say, “See, everyone else has a great relationship with their mothers, why don’t you?!”

I caved. I sent frothy cards for years. A good daughter. For a time, anyhow.  But oh the prayers I said for an honest Mother’s Day Card.

And you don’t have to have a miserable relationship with your own mom, to be frustrated with the fluff being soft peddled via Hallmark and Teleflora. Let’s face it, mothering is difficult. There are pitfalls and land-mines and set-backs. Perfect? I don’t think so. Where is the card that says, “You butt into my life and step over too many boundaries, but I adore you anyhow!”? Or, “Really? I’m not divorcing my husband of 20 years, no matter how you feel about him. But thanks for the reverse psychology! Now that’s good parenting.” or “Mom, you taught me everything I ever needed to know. . .  about being Passive Aggressive, Happy Mother’s Day!”

Not that we’d send those cards. Right? Because we’re good daughters.

Some of you will read the froth and it will be love poetry of the highest calibre. Because it speaks to your soul and your experience. Because you are blessed with a real and honest and nurturing relationship with your mom. And I don’t want to invalidate your experience. I will tell you I’m jealous! But also overjoyed that you knew that kind of love.

But, some of you, like me, find yourself in this limbo of being both a mother and being motherless. And you have my love and compassion this time of year. I want you to know, you are not alone. It’s ok if you hate mother’s day. Whatever your reason.

And because I secretly believe Tina Fey could change my mind about Mother’s Day if she’d just pen a few poems for Hallmark, I’ll leave you with her take on mothering.

A Prayer for My Daughter

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her:

When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.

~~Tina Fey in BossyPants (I suspect Ms. Fey is gently mocking the poetry we find in Mother’s Day Cards this time of year. And that makes me love her all the more!)