Mother's Day, Hallmark, Obligations & My Mother

Yesterday was Mother's Day.

I am not big on Mother's Day, perhaps that is because I have a daughter who makes me feel special on the regular, no tangible gifts required, just our happiness when we're together.  Albeit Mother's Day was cute when she was little with her handmade cards and sloppy breakfasts but that's where I think Mother's Day belongs: with those whose children are small and not filled with the idea/burden of obligation.

Basically, once Hallmark comes into the picture I lose interest.

Yet as yesterday approached I did note - poignantly - that it would be the first Mother's Day in which I did not have a mother. Two and a half months have passed since she died, so there is still that sting, although my grief is of the complicated variety.  Mother's Day mattered very much to my mother which was just one of our very many differences and, like all other holiday type days, when it came to her I approached all of them with a particular dread - the kind that comes from having to do something not with a spirit of fun and excitement, but with the weight of obligation.

As with every other event, off I would go to try and figure out what I could possibly buy for her that she would appreciate or even like.  She was a woman with no interests and I do mean that literally. My mother did not like music or books, she had no hobbies and no interest in current events, didn't like going out to eat (or anywhere else), and since she never left her apartment there was no sense in new clothes or pretty jewelry. Her existence was cigarette smoking, coffee, playing computer solitaire and watching the same movies dozens of times. That is the complete list.

Try shopping for someone like that.

For her birthday last year I bought her a set of beautiful dinnerware - square plates decorated with vibrant, happy flowers - and a set of colorful flatware with handles that looked like sea glass. My daughter bought her a set of cobalt blue drinking glasses to match it all. The idea that, if she was going to insist on being a hermit, at least her scant meals could be filled with beauty.

When she died, we carried out all of those things from her apartment in their original boxes, none of it having ever been opened or used.

What she wanted on holidays was two things: a visit and a card.

The visit part was the hard part. Because she smoked, terribly heavily, no one wanted to visit her and in my case with my lung issues, visiting her had to be a quick 10-minute thing before her smoke-filled tiny apartment got to me and caused problems. I was not the only one who couldn't visit with her because of the smoking and although she lamented her loneliness regularly, she wasn't lonely enough to not smoke even for some hours so the smoke could clear to some degree from her apartment, allowing those of us sensitive to it to go there.

The card thing was weirdly important to her. Maybe it's just me - I don't care a lot for cards with the pre-printed sentiment on the inside that some Hallmark employee came up with. Now, if it's a card with the card giver's own words written on the inside? That's a different story, that's a gift unto itself.

My daughter understands this about me. No need for her to make a mad dash to Walgreen's to grab an overpriced card.  

My mother felt exactly the opposite. 

On my mother's birthday this year my daughter was going over to see her and wanted to bring her a sausage egg McMuffin, one of the foods my mother did enjoy.  So she sets off to go over to her apartment, shows up at the apartment with a big smile and hug for my mother and a sack of McMuffins.  This would make most grandmothers really happy but my mother, instead, honed in on the fact that she didn't have a card for her.  "Where's my card?" she asked her.  My daughter - a notorious non-advance planner - explained that she didn't stop to get one because she wanted to get to McDonald's before it was too late to order breakfast.  "But I'm here!" my daughter exclaimed to her, expecting that to matter.
My mother just shrugged, put off because there was only the presence of the one grandchild out of three who ever visited her...and no $5 Hallmark card.

And, by the way, McDonald's messed up the order and forgot the egg which made my mother very angry and caused the spewing of several F words which also included the statement that if she were physically able, she would drive to that McDonald's "and get the MFer* fired".   
My daughter offered to make an egg to add to the sandwich but was told to just forget it - "it's shit now".  

um, what?

You will understand then why I unsurprisingly had a relief-filled Mother's Day in which my daughter brought me a hat she crocheted herself and we shared a lovely meal together, talking and laughing.

She was there because she wanted to be.

No obligation.  

*MFer was one of her favorite words.