Mother of all days and headaches

I survived my mom. But yours…

I enjoy time with my mater, whether it’s listening to her recount family history (fine, it’s gossip), having her cajole me into a third helping of my favorite dinner or gently teasing her for not knowing how to operate her cell phone — and then being teased back for having to read my text messages from a distance because, yeah, I did get older even though when I was a teen I told her I would never get that old.

But the enjoyment diminishes significantly when we’re out in public on one particular day of the year. That one day it’s supposed to be all about her. Mother’s Day.

When in the early 1900s Anna Jarvis first conceived the motherhood celebration she did so in the hope of honoring the mothers who devoted their lives to nurturing not only their offspring but soldiers wounded in battle. She did not anticipate that it would become a commercial endeavor.

And it is probably a safe bet Jarvis did not forsee that more than 100 years later dutiful sons and daughters would herd their mothers to brunches and lunches and theater shows and wine tastings. All at a special Mother’s Day rate too good to pass.

And so the typical bottomless well of patience runs dry as I listen to a mother behind me in a restaurant ask her son what he is going to order while she meticulously scrutinizes the menu, knowing that in moments the same indecision will present at our table when it comes time to order, and realizing that there is a room filled with women who just don’t know what they want because “everything looks good” or “nothing looks appealing” and it will be hours before cooks get their first orders for meals.

Our slow leisurely stroll through the park will be impeded by the herd of other mothers and sons who are in no particular hurry to get anywhere and arrive nowhere quickly at a snail’s pace in front of us.

And the easy flowing chit chat of a leisurely drive is replaced by the heavy silence of frustration at not being able to find a parking space, or being told “there’s one back there” as we pass those spaces in a crowded lot teeming with mothers and daughters and grandchildren arriving and leaving all at once.

When my mom has a hard time making up her mind what she wants to order or where she wants to go or how far she wants to walk it’s not a big deal because hey, it’s my mom.

When your mom has the same indecision it’s cute and relatable because, ha!, haven’t we all been there, done that?

But when all of the moms and all of the sons and all of the daughters go out on one day and try their best to make that one day a year the best day of the year, you’re just asking for the mother of all frustrating headaches. But somehow it’s worth it.