I Hate Mother’s Day
And I finally have the courage to admit it
I’m going to say something I’ve never felt I was “allowed” to say: I hate Mother’s Day.
I’ve hated it for a long time. During my childhood, my mom felt so deeply unappreciated that Mother’s Day became the one time a year when she expected us to overwhelm her with our gratitude. Yet no matter what we did, she never seemed happy with it and the day invariably ended in arguments and tears. Each May, I dreaded the emotional turmoil it would bring to our family.
As an adult, I waited patiently to join in the celebration. I was so happy for every friend and family member who were slowly added to the celebratory docket as they became mothers and I couldn’t wait for this to be “my day,” too. I imagined my future daughter giving me a handful of wildflowers and fantasized about how different Mother’s Day was going to be in my family — no more of that emotional turmoil.
But…things didn’t turn out the way I thought they would, as so often happens. Today, I’m 43, single, and childless, staring down the barrel of another dreaded Mother’s Day.
My feelings about becoming a mother are all over the board these days. Sometimes, I’m okay with it. Really and truly. I cherish my freedom. I am very aware what a gift it is and as I get older, I find myself questioning more and more whether or not I want to give up that freedom. It makes sense, biologically speaking, since I’m at an age where most people are sending their kids off to college and preparing to pursue their own dreams. I kinda missed the window on the whole “selfless mom” phase. (I was a selfless teacher and volunteer mentor, at the time.)
Sometimes, when I still long to meet the daughter I’ve dreamed about so many times and I’m more hopeful than usual, I realize that things could happen if the right partner came along. Or if my business made enough so that I could afford adoption.
Sometimes, I’m just downright heartbroken about the whole damn thing.
I really wanted this. I know it’s annoyingly clichéd, but I really wanted a nice husband and a little girl or two (or whatever). I saved my baby clothes for her, which I recently gave to my sister and sister-in-law for their daughters, hoping to see the clothing used rather than sitting in boxes in my garage. I have chosen a name for my daughter. I have seen her in my mind a thousand times.
The thought that she might be only a dream sometimes overwhelms me with grief.
Navigating my way through our pro-natalist culture certainly doesn’t help. In my experience, I have found that there’s no space for me as a childless woman, unless I’m a childless woman actively pursuing motherhood (which I’m not). My story is not of interest to others. My experience has little value.
But here’s the thing: I want to be able to share my feelings. I want to be able to express the discomfort and pain that comes up for me around Mother’s Day. I want to be able to talk about my life and feel heard.
Instead, people roll their eyes when I mention the whole Mother’s Day is hard thing. “Why do you have to ruin this for the rest of us?” they ask. Or worse, “Do you have to be so bitter?”
But here’s something that needs to be said: When people are grieving over lost dreams, they (usually) aren’t bitter. They are processing pain. And that’s a very different thing.
It’s inevitable that Mother’s Day gatherings (actually, all gatherings involving my friends or family) eventually turn into a sharing circle in which the moms talk about the births of their babies, breastfeeding challenges, how to get your kid to sleep through the night, etc. I used to love these conversations because I’d tuck all this information away for future use.
To this day, I have absolutely no objection to these conversations, except for the fact that, to be honest, I’m a little bored with these subjects after 23 years of listening and not being able to include myself in the conversation.
Do you know what we never talk about?
- Being single after 40.
- Being childless or childfree.
- The struggles and delights of being a single woman homeowner.
- Cooking for one.
- Finding resources to help with things you can’t do by yourself (things a husband might help with, like moving furniture).
We never, ever talk about these subjects and they are, as you can imagine, as important to me as the topic of breastfeeding is to a mother. This is my life, and I’d love to share, laugh, and commiserate, too.
For some reason, there just doesn’t seem to be any room for that. Sure, it’s rarer to be single and childless than it is to be married and a mother. And as such, I’m happy to listen to stories about chapped nipples and sassy toddlers all afternoon.
But could we maybe also brainstorm on some ideas about how I could find someone to help me build a fence around my garden or talk about how weirdly isolating — and sometimes freeing — it can feel when you have no one to come home to at night?
Things are changing. A little bit. I’m grateful for the people who are trying to make this day more inclusive. I love the idea of celebrating motherhood as a practice, an energy, a gift, rather than only celebrating women who are raising (or who have raised) children. I believe you are a mother if you’re a teacher, an auntie, a fur mommy, or really anyone of any gender who nurtures and cares for someone else. That’s really what it’s about, isn’t it? To celebrate the people in our lives who give so much love and caregiving to others?
I hope we more fully embrace that attitude in the future. But for now, just as when I was little, the weight of this day still feels so damn heavy.
© Yael Wolfe 2020
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