Last week, I wrote about a 10-year-old girl named Grace who overheard her mother discussing the horrific treatment of the student media outlet the mom advised. Grace decided to make T-shirts, blending her love of journalism and her love of “Star Wars” to raise about $150 for the Student Press Law Center, an organization that was helping to defend her mom. To make that amount, Grace needed to sell 10 shirts.
In less than a week, the shirt order form was closed and Grace had raised more than $1,200 for SPLC.
I have a no idea how many shirts that is, but it’s a hell of a lot more than 10.
I thought about Grace not just because it’s a good idea for journalists to update stories and bring them some sort of closure, but because she did it for her mom.
This weekend is Mother’s Day and I’m planning on running around like a guy with my hair on fire to make sure that I get time in with my mom, my wife’s mom and my wife, all of whom seem to be moving in opposite directions. The running isn’t unusual as we’ve been doing this for more than a decade now, but this year I don’t mind as much.
I know I have a lot more of these events in the past than I do in the future, so I’m trying to find a way to savor every one.
My uncle, not a sentimental guy of any kind, brought that home for me this year when he told us about his plans for the weekend. My aunt’s mother died a month or two back, so he plotted a course to Las Vegas for the both of them.
“Neither of us have a mother to celebrate with, so we figured let’s get out of here,” he told me.
It was perfectly pragmatic and yet amazingly sad.
I know not everyone still has a mom around and kicking. I also know that many people who are “moms” aren’t always the best exemplars of that term. That’s why I my heart goes out to everyone who doesn’t feel the draw of this Hallmark Holiday and why I treasure it so much.
Mom isn’t perfect but she was perfectly geared to whatever I needed at the time. She managed to know when I needed a hug or a swift kick in the ass. She knew when she needed to provide a strong front with my father in regard to a punishment and when she needed to step in front of the speeding train of rage that was my father. She knew when to hold tight and when to let go. It wasn’t always easy and there were often a lot of tears, but she did the right thing as often as possible and more often than I had the right to expect.
We have long had a tradition in which my parents would take all the moms in our family out to a really fancy restaurant. The biggest gathering was the Mother’s Day just before our wedding. It was both of my grandmothers, both of my wife’s grandmothers, my mom, her mom and the husbands who were still alive. We took over a small private room at a wonderful restaurant and enjoyed getting to know each other in advance of our big day.
The next year was smaller, as both my grandmothers had died. My wife’s mother and grandmother had moved up to the woods. Her other one couldn’t make it.
Each year, the number fluctuated, even growing by a mom once we had The Midget with us. My wife laughingly recalls many of those early Mother’s Day meals where she’d eat with one hand as she balanced a sleeping, drooling child on her other shoulder.
This year, it’s just my side of the family, as travel for my mother-in-law has become too difficult. We’ll do a cookout when we get back home later that day and tell stories like we always do. As my wife and I watch our mothers wistfully yearn for the days of having mothers of their own, we both know we will some day feel that ache. We also know a day will soon come when our bundle of joy will have “things to do” and might not be around for those events we so treasure now.
It’s part of the life cycle. We get it.
On days like Sunday, we just put it off a little bit and enjoy the idea that it hasn’t happened yet.