Once a year for Mother's Day I post things I've written about my mother. It's my way of celebrating her. It's unvarnished, somewhat tawdry, and unapologetic. And, even more than on her birthday or the day that she died - probably because it's the day where we're all talking about our mothers - I'm plunged into a bunch of maudlin reminiscences. I will spend the day neurotically rereading and reliving these memories and shedding more than a few tears. This year would have been no different, but for my nephew Scott's posting something about the passing of his mother, my dear sister and the second most important planet in my universe.
He and his dad had gone to Red Lobster, something that the three of them had done on Mother's Day. That was for me also bittersweet. In one of the rare instances when my mother had come to visit me, I had taken her out to dinner. She wanted to go to the Red Lobster. But being the effete foodie, I took her to a really nice place and of course she proceeded to sabotage it and we had a fight about it. During that same trip, we went to New Orleans and she saw a garland of garlic that she wanted and I refused to buy it because it cost all of $45.
I often beat myself up about that and all of the other times that I did or said things that I shouldn't have or times when my actions could have been more gracious. It makes me sad. But then I talk myself off the ledge because I know there wasn't a thing in the world that I could have done that would have made her stop loving me, a realization that I came to late in life after I had my own son. It helps me break out of my melancholy and celebrate the things we did together, the joyous times, the tremendous moments of love our family has shared. It brings me comfort.
