Sometimes we like to say – Surprise me! Tell me! eMail me! FaceBook me!
But never do we really say Disappoint me! However, that must be the most common me of all. I’m no stranger to disappointment. I can even type it without making any errors. That’s how often I must think of it and use it in my writing and sentences. I seem like the most dour and sour of people, but I’m not. I like to blame others for making me like this. I’m very tolerant of others and keep my boundaries clear. But sometimes it’s not possible to maintain the facade. And on days like Mother’s Day, it has to be shed for a short time.
I truly hate Mother’s Day. Ever since I made the decision not to have children, I’ve been battered and pummeled by the need to smile when all I’ve been doing is smiling for others while I turmoiled inside. I don’t want to be a mother, and don’t miss being one, as I’ve seen how once you get past the horrors of possible problems with the physical wellbeing of your child, how even a grown child can keep you in hostage using things like, oh, yes. Their children. Imagine that.
I’ve seen mothers upset, in therapy, depressed, on drugs, using alcohol, all because of their kids. Or to put it another way, because they’re mothers.
I felt this way, until I was asked to be a godmother to our family’s first grandchild. Susan. I baptized her and promised to be by her side. She turned her back on me and on my family, and hasn’t been seen or heard from in may years. Guess what? She has taken her child and probably screwed her up for life. I’m half-expecting the child to come running in on some holiday when I’m sitting around with Mom drinking black tea, with a machine gun or something, and taking us all hostage. That would be ironic!
What cemented my feelings, my love, my hopes, was the birth of my grandchild. As of this Mother’s Day, as of this time, I haven’t heard from her, and she is certainly of the age to figure this out. Or not.
Here’s the kicker. It’s late in the afternoon. I need to run. I keep checking my phone, and keep checking my email, but no word from her. I’m once again, disappointed. But, should she get in touch, who’s the bad guy here. Who gets to be blamed for the bad feelings, the passive aggressiveness, the anger, the hurt? Me!
So I’m torn. Do I delight in being miserable and take the consequences, or do I let it “roll off my back” “grow a thick skin” “get real” “it’s not her fault” until I’m sick to my heart?
Well, why not. Go on to plan and be an adult. Grow up. Get a life.
All of the above. And, this is not over. Just wait until my birthday! I should really be in fine fettle!