When we went out to restaurants, my mother always ate the heel of the bread. I never understood how she could like it. Usually crunchy, crumbly and dry, even a generous slathering of butter couldn’t improve it. But she asked for it first as the rest of us tore at the soft, stretchy remaining part of the loaf.
Years later, I find myself eating burnt pizza crust, the scrapings of the bottom of the macaroni and cheese pot, the misshapen bagels, or apples that are bruised. It’s not that I like these culinary misfits, but I’m a mother now.
I spend my money on sports jerseys and summer camps, not designer clothes or dream-worthy vacations. I wake in the morning thinking of schedules and science fairs and unsupervised parties. I plan my evenings around carpool schedules and football practices. I stay up late when I’m tired to make sure my teenager gets home safe or to watch a movie with my youngest.
While the physical transition to motherhood can be jarring, the emotional hold is surreptitious. You don’t notice the little sacrifices that bring you to nurture and care, more deeply than you ever thought possible.
I scoff a bit at the idea of Mother’s Day, a Hallmark-invented holiday to drive up sales of flowers and gift cards. But at the same time, I appreciate the reminder to think of the things my own mother did for me.
I never thought about the days she was too tired to get dinner on the table but did it anyway. Or the intense worry she must have felt when I was a teenager out doing teenage things. Or that maybe there was a time she didn’t like eating the crusty end from the bread basket.
But being a mother for more than a decade now, I recognize that love isn’t always about making a proclamation or being a perfect parent. It’s told through little things like driving an economy car, spending weekends freezing on metal bleachers, and eating the burnt piece of chicken.
I love being a mother and wouldn’t trade it for the world. Even though it’s a Hallmark holiday, I’m happy to have a day to celebrate all the women and mothers. I don’t want flowers or perfume or even the doughy center of a fresh-baked semolina, but appreciation would be nice.
If you’re reading this, you have a mother to thank.
Happy Mother’s Day!
