Mother's Day

I noticed a lot of Facebook profile photos going to mother-daughter shots today. Looking back through a long catalog of photographs, I was unable to find any of just my Mom and me. I have to say, I’m not too surprised. I didn’t have that kind of mom. My Mom was a worker bee. She wasn’t about telling me she loved me, throwing an arm around my shoulder and grabbing a quick snapshot. She loved me, but not like that, as the saying goes.

My Mom was about the business of childrearing and running a household: Three meals a day, laundry, ensuring her kids didn’t swear or deteriorate into civil disobedient deviates or otherwise embarrass our family or the larger family of man. She felt an obligation to ensure her kids knew the difference between “knew” and “new,” “seen” and “saw,” the use of “I” and “me,” on which side of the plate the fork was placed, the proper use of a soup spoon, the definition of appropriate dress, and the importance of a clean face, combed hair, and well brushed teeth. If you had an interested in learning to bake or cook, she could accommodate that as well.

Unconditional love was not in vogue in her era. Children were to be seen and not heard. Children were born to assist, not to be assisted, entertained, coddled, or excessively adored. There was work to be done, a future to be lived; in short, there was both a timetable and an agenda.

Within that construct there was approval and disapproval, and the child’s task was to win and maintain approval. And that didn’t transpire on a soccer field or baseball diamond; it didn’t transpire in karate class or by excelling at any other form of game or recreational activity—and if it didn’t have a concrete measurable productive value and useful application for the immediate needs of the family or applicable to one's future life in the eyes of my Mother, it was just that: recreation. Fine for playtime but only after all other tasks of home, family and education were first complete.

There were plenty of upsides to this upbringing of mine although it did lend itself to a child developing a sense of performance-based esteem as opposed to well-centered and grounded self-esteem. Not that she would have given a wink of concern about such matters. Being born in 1910, my Mother’s perspective was of citizenship and productivity. Her children needed to do well. And to her credit, we have to a large extent. And maybe that is the greatest expression of a mother's love: her legacy in a child who thrives, respects, and embraces life.

All that said, I wish I could post a photo today of my Mom and me. All in all, I think she "done me good."

To the rest of you: Happy Mother’s Day to all those moms out there who work hard, sacrifice, and do everything they believe is right to ensure their little ones survive and thrive. It seems like impossible work but, somehow, and thankfully, more moms get it right than wrong. And for that, we can all be grateful.