Just another Sunday
Mother's Day. Bah, humbug.
In both my birth country and the country I live in, this weekend was Mother’s Day. As mother to a 17-year-old boychild, I qualify as part of the demographic being feted.
Here in Switzerland, Mother’s Day is a private family matter. One would never wish a “happy Mother’s Day” to anyone not related by blood. It goes in keeping with this traditional society, I suppose, where anything emotional stays within the family.
And although it is the 21st century, women who have children are mothers first. Mothers are expected to stay home with their children and reduce their workload accordingly; a couple half-days per week are permissible. Schools close for an hour and a half at midday so kids can go home for lunch. If you want a career, don’t have kids.
Women who become mothers are even desexed. In Swiss German, the word for “mother” – a feminine noun in standard German, French, Italian, to name a few – is neutral. Das Mami. A term my son is forbidden to use.
In the US, Mother’s Day greetings are part of being polite. I can wish anyone who is a mom a happy day. (Shout out here to all my relatives, friends, and acquaintances whom I did not greet appropriately on the day.) It’s not personal, it’s social. Maybe too much so.
I would not mind something in the middle. But by necessity, I have become somewhat of a Grinch when it comes to celebrating.
When I was a kid, any Mother’s Day revelry was initiated by my father. He always bought gifts: her favorite perfume, a book she’d be interested in, a piece of jewelry. Flowers, too. When the four of us were still quite small, I vaguely remember her wearing an orchid corsage to church on that Sunday.
Often Dad would take us shopping during the week before to “help” pick out things for Mum–– I realized later that he always knew just what he was looking for, but we were allowed to browse and advise and enjoy keeping secret for a few days. We’d go for brunch after church, then. Or Dad would make pancakes in the morning and then we’d take Mum out for dinner.
Of course we always made cards for her, or proudly presented some craft from school. But it was really Dad celebrating his queen, the mother of his four children, the love of his life. We were just witnesses.
I married a man who was trained by his neo-feminist mother to ignore the day. She thought it was ridiculous to be reduced to her role as a mother and then have that commemorated one day per year. At least, that’s how he explained his oblivion to me. It could also be that with three sons and a husband who was not prone to sentimentality, she reduced her expectations accordingly.
The custom of engineering absurd objects from egg cartons and empty toilet paper rolls is also prevalent in Swiss primary schools. My son would bring these fragile creations home the week before Mother’s Day and expect to enter into a conspiracy with his father to surprise and delight me. The only one surprised was my husband. He never seemed to realize that something was expected of him – if not by me, then by the small blond boy.
Once I got mad about this. (That’s when I got the explanation about my mother-in-law.) I absolutely do not feel reduced to my role as a mother. If anything, I feel like it’s an enormous add-on to the fact of my existence. It was a major achievement to have a child at all, never mind midstream at 41, and then somehow hang on to my identity. Raising a child is no easy task, especially when you didn’t expect to. You wanted a family, man of mine; are you not thrilled with my participation in this project?
My rant made an impression that lasted for a couple years. I got taken out for dinner once on Mother’s Day. However, when the boychild grew out of gift-making at school, that was the end of that.
This year, my Sunday was spent blissfully alone. The sun was out, I had hummus for breakfast, I pulled a few weeds and then sat in my garden reading and listening to the birds. Do my two menfolk realize that the best gift they can give me is a day free of decisions? Probably not; obliviousness is carried on the Y chromosome in this household. But I’ll take it.
I’ve never been a fan of Mother’s Day. My first years as a new mother the day often came with high expectations and resulted in great disappointment when nothing was done. There were a few bitter years in there where I may have ranted a bit. One year I even ordered my own flowers for delivery. 😂 Now it’s just another Sunday for me too. Zero expectations. I’ve learned to just appreciate all the love around me on all the days. (Except this year I was actually given flowers and chocolate. There’s a first time for everything!)