Mother's Day again: revisiting the card that got it right
It's OK that I never got to give it away
<Welcome to Sandwich Season, where I explore the burdens and blessings of life in the sandwich generation—in the hopes of encouraging others in similar seasons.>
Hi friends—
This Sunday will mark my second Mother’s Day without my mom. She passed in August 2023, and what follows is the post I wrote last Mother’s Day, with a couple of additions.
Take care, everyone,
Sarah
Mother’s Day 2024
This week was destined to be emotionally charged. My mom’s birthday and Mother’s Day are arriving two days apart, two without-her firsts hitting one right after the other.
I will be honest. The weeks leading up to Mom’s double celebration have always been a bit challenging for me. Why? The struggle to find the right greeting card.
The stakes always seemed high. How to honor the woman who gave me life? (She’d love for you to know that I was born two weeks overdue, 9 pounds 6 ounces and breach. Sorry, Mom.)
How to celebrate the woman who introduced me to spring crocus and hyacinth, nuthatches and chickadee-dee-dees, who removed my first tick and who laid the groundwork for everything from the colors and foods I pair to the words I use to the ways I approach my friendships?
All this, but our relationship was too complex for flowery “I-can’t-imagine-a-better-mom-than-you” sentiments.
My mom drove me crazy, and I know the feeling was mutual. She was a neatnik—I tend toward chaos. She was tailored—growing up, I loved ruffles. She liked few things more than curling up with a good book—I tend to be on the move. She wondered aloud why I couldn’t just be.
She was incredibly supportive but also had a way of throwing me off course, plunging me into self-doubt with one sharply worded phrase or question.
Over the years I learned to hold back, to build little walls and to poke at her in my own ways: by not taking an interest in her family history project, by not ooh-ing and aah-ing over her award-winning garden.
By not sending her gushy greeting cards.
It sounds so small, doesn’t it? She’s gone now, and with her went so many stories, so much wisdom, so much love.
But the truth is, I feel very little regret.
With my own flawed little heart, I loved her as well as I could. I bought her gifts she enjoyed and lots of cards—cards with very few words. But each one was honest and honoring. I stand behind them.
Now I recognize that her toughness prepared me for battles I’ve needed to wage. She strengthened me, so I’d have the confidence to walk away from relationships and other commitments that were unhealthy. She tempered me, helping me also to build the endurance to stay, to build a life and to advocate for the people who have needed me.
Along the way, she and I did have lots of fun, laughing until the tears came and making lots of memories.
One of our favorites that we often reminisced about was the time she and her dear lifelong friend Kay came to visit me in Japan. They were 52 years old—younger than I am now—and I was 25. I took them on my dream trip, a whirlwind, couple-week tour with nearly every single minute scheduled. In addition to spending time with my host family, friends and neighbors, we experienced the sights and sounds of nine different cities, including two of Japan’s three “most scenic” places. Mom always recalled arriving home and crawling into bed, barely emerging for days. (Our adventures are part of my memoir, The Same Moon.)
For her part, Mom showed me around her home province of Saskatchewan, and as a family we traveled all over western Canada and even up to the Northwest Territories. Later, I fell in love with her and Dad’s desert neighborhood in Arizona, where they were snowbirds, and learned the names of the plants with her.
But most of my memories with Mom are from the times we spent together at home in Minnesota. I always visited regularly, arriving home to warm hugs and a kiss on her soft cheek.
In 2020, after 19 years away in the latest stretch, Jon, Max and I moved back to my hometown, to a house a few miles down the street from Mom and Dad’s. I got to live nearby for the last few years of Mom’s life.
As dementia set in, and her health faded, Mom and Dad moved in March 2023 into a retirement community. We sat together in their apartment, sharing stories and memories amid yellow-blooming forsythia branches I had cut from their yard. We thought she might not make it to her birthday, and when she did, we invited friends over to celebrate with cakes and treats.
A couple of months later, as the end of her life neared, I napped with her and fed her bits of salmon, strawberries and spinach from what had become our shared favorite salad.
As I witnessed her physical decline, I grew in understanding of the beautiful, caring woman my mom was and realized two important things: All was forgiven, and all was love.
A few weeks ago on a grocery run, I walked past a Mother’s Day display and stopped, briefly forgetting that my mom was gone. A card caught my eye. I picked it up, read the sentiment and smiled.
Finally—finally!—I had found the perfect card. I bought it and set it on the mantel in our living room, where it stands in tribute to my mom.
I hope one day my son will see past my quirks and shortcomings, and choose a similar card for me.
With love,
Sarah
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The Same Moon drawing is next week
Reminder: Everyone who becomes a paid subscriber by May 15, 2025, will be entered in a drawing to win one of two (or more) copies of my Japan memoir, The Same Moon. (Why this? Why now? It’s a 5-year book-iversary!)
The card is perfect Sarah. It was not to be given away😊🩷
The card is perfect. It applies to me as well, and probably so many others.❤️