Mother’s Day: a deconstruction 

Mother’s Day is finished and I’m okay with that. I’ve written before about this day. It’s inevitably complicated for me because I love my children and the women in my life, but motherhood for me is simply painful.

It just is. 

Every day I go about raising my kids and feeling mostly inadequate about it. We face huge horrible struggles we can’t get away from. I’m constantly evaluating my performance and mostly feel like I’m spinning my wheels. 

So Mother’s Day feels like too much pressure. Maybe that’s my fault, for being overly sensitive about my full-time job. 

And I don’t love watching other people’s primary children sing to their mothers, because mine have too many anxieties and developmental disabilities to join in. So there’s that.

On the other hand, I like buying books for my mom and my mother-in-law, wrapping them in brown paper, tying them with purple ribbon, stopping Jack repeatedly from unwrapping them, and presenting them to my moms.

I like that the guys gave me daisies and Red Vines.

I like that we got to see Dutch’s grandparents today.

I like that eldest son gave a lovely talk in sacrament meeting about his mom and his grandmas.

I like rainy weather followed by sunny weather. 

I like watching children get older.

I like being a mom. Except when I don’t because it’s crushing me.

Is motherhood like running? I wouldn’t know because I don’t run, but I’ve heard runners say that while they do not like how they feel when they run, they love how they feel when they are finished. 

Maybe raising kids is similar. It’s all soft-lit and warm and lovely in hindsight; meanwhile my legs are burning and my lungs are burning and WHY do people choose to do this?

Anyway, it’s behind me for another year. And May is beautiful.

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