All our moms

It's Mother's Day weekend, and I am one of many who call a cherished friend "Mom." Mom turns 93 today. She entered hospice care yesterday. 

I saw her last night, and she’s weak, but she still has all her faculties. She’s still Mom - asking after my kids and our friends, making sure everyone is doing ok.

It’s raining where I am today - a steady and comforting spring rain that invites contemplation, and I haven’t been able to think about anything other than Mom and her actual kids wading through the logistics of hospice care and the related stress and grief. Even if you think you’re ready, you’re not.

Mom’s actual daughter (one of my closest friends) texts me updates. Mom is still running the show, so I’m comforted by the idea that she’ll get everyone focused on joy and gratitude in a hurry.

That has been her gift to us. She’s been a mom figure for sure. But she has also shaped us - with her wit, her perspective, her curiosity, her faith in people, and her capacity for love. That’s been my biggest comfort today. While I can’t quite imagine a world without her, when it’s time to leave, she’ll still be with us in lots of amazing ways.

It’s short-sighted to paint all moms with this brush, and I know there are plenty of people for whom Mother’s Day is painful for a number of reasons. The day tends to be hyper-sentimentalized and misses the many nuances that come with complicated roles and relationships.

This point hit home during one of my most memorable Mother’s Days, which was spent alongside my own mom, helping our close friends with their annual plant sale. My mom is an avid gardener, and she quickly fell into point-of-sale tasks - answering questions about whether this variety would work on the porch on the north side of the house, taking money, and making change.

I am what I would describe as an average gardener, and counting back change is not among my favorite activities, so I took on the role of “goodwill ambassador,” greeting people upon their arrival, directing them to parking, and helping them schlep their purchases back to their cars.

A gentle spring sun was out and the colorful annuals dialed up the brightness on our friends’ beautiful farm. The vast majority of customers were moms of some sort: Moms, dad moms, mothers in-law, godmothers, adopted moms, second moms, stepmoms, aunt moms, neighbor moms, my mom’s-roommate-in-college-who-is-like-my-mom-but-better-because-she’s-not moms, moms who lost their moms, moms who lost their children, moms who no longer talk to their children, moms who weren’t planning on being moms, moms that worry every day that they’re doing everything wrong.

Several of them shared their connections and what they meant to each other. Others carried the tension and tone that comes from trying when relationships are strained. I noticed the pain of loss in the faces of a few others as I loaded their flowers in backs of their cars.

I realized how lucky I am - my own mom is strong, wise, and loving. I’m also fortunate to have people like “Mom” who love me like a daughter.

I remember calling Mom out of the blue many years ago when I couldn’t get my head around an insensitive question that came to me in a very public way about a friend’s private matter. I just needed someone to talk to about it, and Mom was the first person I thought of. When she answered the phone, I couldn’t stop crying. She patiently listened. When I eventually pulled it together, her advice was sound, and went something like, “give yourself some space, and forgive this person, because she doesn’t understand. Just keep being loving, sweetheart.”

Mom has taught me the value of being loving - through care and attention, service to others, and always being prepared to lay out a really great appetizer spread.

Loving well is not limited to moms, but there are some who are particularly brilliant at it.

Thank you, Mom.