Here in the Land of Oz, tomorrow is Mother’s Day. (Or is it, “Mothers’ Day”?) I have mixed feelings about it. Of course, I’m all for making mothers feel special and appreciated. Same goes for fathers on their special day. Nothing wrong with a bit of family love.
I will be having lunch with my kids and grandkids before they all go off with the Old Boy to the football, and I drive myself home. The Wonder Dog will then have the rest of the day to spoil me. It’s always nice to have time with the family, so I’m grateful.
However, I can’t help thinking of all the people who are sad on this day. First of all, those of us whose mothers have died, will feel the loss. I was a most fortunate child; I had a great mum. But, then there are the people who never knew their birth mother, because they were orphaned or abandoned or given up to adoption. Then there are the people who had terrible mothers who, due to alcoholism or drugs or mental illness or just plain wickedness, abused them until they had a chance to escape. And, there are all the women who’d love to be mothers but are unable to experience that joy for one reason or another.
I wonder what those people think of the saccharine sweet images of motherhood that we see on our televisions and in advertising material. Just like it has done with Christmas, the business world has glormed on to the idea of mothers as a marketting tool. We’re then presented with the Hallmark ideal of true motherhood, from which most of us fall far short.
According to Advertising Land, I’m supposed to be a trim woman, with silver gray hair swept back (or up) in an elegant coiffure; a gracious woman, fashionable in an understated manner, with facial skin like a thirty year old because I use Nivea or Palmolive or Olay or some other gunk.
In reality I’m a chunky woman, whose hair is still mainly dark with just a few silver highlights cut in a slightly punky way; a not always gracious woman (often a right grumpy-bum), only fashionable in my own eyes, with facial skin that is dry and afflicted with age spots (one the shape of Africa on my cheek), that occasionally gets an application of goop when I remember it.
Thankfully my family loves me anyway and I don’t need a special day to assure me of that. Of course, I won’t say no to anything they’d like to give me – that would be ungracious and we all know that’s not what we mothers aspire to be.
As I said: Mixed feelings about the whole deal. But, as it’s on the calendar let’s make it a day to show our respect for decent mothering and to uphold the dignity of women everywhere. If you’ve still got your mother in your life, I hope you have a lovely day together.