Dear Mom,

Last weekend was Mother’s Day. The day we all collectively celebrate the person(s) in our lives who, so often, does the heavy lifting. Make the appointments. Volunteer at the schools. Sign the papers. Tidy the rooms. Plan the parties. The one day we all acknowledge the importance of the person who birthed us. Breastfed or bottle fed. Wiped butts and bathed. The person who packed the diaper bag, the snack bag, and the backpacks. The person who is always there to answer the biggest life question a child will ever have… Why?

Why is this day so important to me? And why am I so disappointed that no one else cares? Why does it matter at all that my children can’t possibly be bothered to be nice to me or to one another on just one fucking day out of the year?

How was my Mother’s Day? Eh. It could’ve been better.

Or… maybe not. Maybe it isn’t meant to be better at this stage in life. Maybe Mother’s Day with young kids is meant to be a little underwhelming and a bit disappointing. Maybe Mother’s Day with young kids is supposed to be a small reminder that without the help of a teacher forcing students to make cute crafts we’d probably get nothing. Maybe these years are simply steppingstones to the next phase, when our children are old enough to truly grasp how lucky they are.

One day my kids will be grateful for all I do. One day they will understand the work that goes into this thankless job of being their mom. One day my kids will see Mother’s Day as a culmination of an entire year of hard work. They’ll see the truth. That Mother’s Day is my award show. It’s my championship trophy. It’s my Nobel prize ceremony.

Someday it won’t feel like my family is obligated to treat me like a human for just one day a year. Someday they will profess their appreciation towards me and someday I will believe them.

Or… perhaps I need to lower my expectations. Perhaps I’m better off acknowledging the very real fact that Mother’s Day is simply the second Sunday in May. Maybe it’s better for my own mental health to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised when I open my teacher-led craft. And maybe I need to acknowledge the very real fact that I did no more than the bare minimum for you.

When I close my eyes and try really hard to remember celebrating Mother’s Day with you, I see a family brunch at some generic hotel in the suburbs where mothers gathered with their children and their own mothers and their sisters and their mothers-in-law. Everyone had mimosas and there was probably an omelet bar and some sort of carving station. I see it happening once. But maybe it happened more often. Maybe it was our tradition. I don’t remember.

In college, when I worked at the private club in the football stadium at Florida State University, we put together an epic Mother’s Day brunch each year. We had the omelet bar and carving station. We had flowers and family pictures. We college students who were likely hungover, starving, and so far away from home, put all of our energy into making the day extra special for the moms who happened to be paying to come to our little annual shindig.

But they weren’t our moms. Our moms were far away. Sometimes in another city. In my case, 1000 miles northwest.

You didn’t celebrate Mother’s Day with your children during those years. Your children left for college and never came back.

Did I only ever celebrate Mother’s Day with you while I was a child? Did I only ever share my love for you when it was in the form of a craft designed by a teacher? When it was an obligation and planned by someone else. Most likely planned by you.

Did you ever get the chance in life to get a genuine Mother’s Day gift from me? Something thoughtful and from the heart?

It horrifies me to think that you never got what you so deserved. You never got the full appreciation I owed you. Did I ever tell you how good of a mom you were?

I know I told you I loved you. But did I ever say thank you for being my mom? Did I ever mention how lucky I was? I don’t think I did.

I know it sounds crazy, but until recently, I hadn’t fully grasped all you did for me. I was foolish and ignorant. I took you for granted. I assumed you’d always be there. I didn’t fully appreciate you while you were alive.

Before you died, I wasn’t capable of truly understanding your role in my life. I wasn’t able to fully acknowledge all you did for me on a daily basis. I wasn’t a mom yet myself. But now I know the truth. Being a mom is hard.

My Mother’s Day this year left me feeling deflated. I felt like I was a complete failure as a mom to raise these ungrateful little shits who can’t be bothered to act nice for one day. But I don’t really believe they’re ungrateful little shits. I believe they’re just too young to grasp what I do for them and how much I need their gratitude. I think there is something much bigger than their crappy attitudes that caused me to feel so sad. This is hard to admit, but I fear I will never reach the point in my motherhood when my children are old enough and wise enough to realize the important role their mom played in their lives. What if I die young and they never get the chance to thank me? What if the cycle continues of ungrateful children seeing the truth only after it’s too late?

I know I’m being dramatic. Perhaps a bit hyperbolic. But you did die before I really understood the impact you had on my life. You died before I understood how hard the role of a mom truly is. You died before I had a chance to thoroughly thank you. And I’m sorry. I do wish I would have held you and showered you with gratitude before you died. I wish I could have had one last Mother’s Day brunch at some random hotel in the suburbs with you. I wish I could have one more day. Just to say thank you.

Wherever you are. If you can read this letter. I want you to know that I know you were a great mom. I am so eternally grateful for you and all you did to provide love and support for me. Thank you for signing me up for piano and guitar and ice skating and dance and gymnastics. Thank you for all the camp registrations. Thank you for letting me go to Canada with camp the summer before high school. Thank you for sending me to Vietnam for the summer when I was sixteen. Thank you for allowing me to go visit David by myself in Spain and not being too upset when I returned with a nose piercing. Thank you for feeding me. Thank you for clothing me. Thank you for my insane Bat Mitzvah party and for all the birthday parties. Thank you for showing me the city. For the Alanis Morissette concert in the 4th grade. For taking me to plays and for all the movie marathons. Thank you for being my mom. Thank you for being you. Thank you for influencing me and who I am now as a mom.

Thank you.

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel