Sunday is Mothers Day and I’m going to try again to divest myself of all planned work, chores, conversations, and responsibilities; while avoiding expectant smiles about having a good time, including my own.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, and I love to laugh and smile. Yet as a mother, the heaping pile of expectation I feel most days is even bigger than my usual mountain of undone laundry.
This mama expectation pile seems to be made of practical, spiritual, and cultural stuffs. And it lies atop the expectations I put on myself to be kinder, more understanding, more generous, more involved, more organized, more loving, more wise, and more fun… This more, more, more thing is a perfectionist’s folly, but I’m guessing it is not mine alone.
I think expectations on Mothers Day feels so big because Moms are needed to exist. And unfortunately folks who aren’t so sure they are personally delighted about how life’s going look to collective mom-ness for some kind of validation that it’s good to be here.
So, now I’m noticing what makes a happier kind of day occur these days. For me, it starts with a decision to identify with the aspect of myself who chose to be here. I guess you could say that’s “the spiritual me.”
No one can really confirm – or deny– that we chose to be here, incarnate as a tiny speck inside a ginormous starry-filled universe, but I’ll still affirm that I chose this life, and then it feels kind of free. I definitely chose the trappings of this life, so there’s that.
So, happiness for me is not a fancy brunch, or school-made ornament with a cute photo of my kid, or even flowers and chocolates (though these hit pleasure points for sure). None of these acknowledgements make it ALL worth it. None really
“Worth it” I keep finding, is an inside job, doing those things that make me feel like when I first discovered the joy of movies, reading, beaches, the woods, painting, maybe even parenting…
So to have more of the freer, happier kinds of experiences, it means doing the things I genuinely love, daily; celebrating my body, daily; and letting down expectations I put on myself, entirely.
So I may spend the day hiding out in a dark room (like a movie theater), or visiting the water at this place where no one but dogs sniff me out and the breeze blows long and through me. Maybe I’ll write or make art, maybe I’ll drive around listening to podcasts, or maybe I’ll just have a fun day refusing stuff.
And if I feel like a loving daughter, I’ll also stop in on my mom, and let her know I know. Then we’ll share a goofy laugh, glance at each other with fierce freedom, and do absolutely nothing for each other. And that will be just right.
Happy Mothers Day,
