Mother’s Day, Without Reservations

As it turned out, my husband and I went to dinner for Mother’s Day.

That wasn’t the plan.  Since I never had children, Mother’s Day is barely an afterthought on my calendar.  We thought we were just having an early Sunday dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant.  However, when we saw a line backing up out of the door, we realized something different was going on.  “Oops,” I said, thinking out loud, “I guess it’s Mother’s Day.”

I regretted those words the instant they left my mouth, because the ladies in line starting giving me some very funny looks.  “You didn’t make a reservation?”  “You should know better.” “You don’t go ANYWHERE on Mother’s Day without a reservation.”  

In defense, I just said, “We come here all the time.  Didn’t think about it.”  The onslaught simmered down to some low muttering.  Peering around the line, I saw plenty of empty tables, but decided It would be best not to say anything else.  When we reached the head of the line and mentioned that we didn’t have a reservation, the young lady just said, “No problem, if you don’t mind sitting upstairs.”

We didn’t.  Not at all.  In all the years we’d been coming to this restaurant, we’d never even seen the upstairs.  It was cute up there, and much smaller, so it was nice and quiet.  A perfect choice for us.  We ordered some of our favorites, had the usual great meal, and left with our usual doggie bags.

So why can’t I get it the whole experience off my mind this week?  No one was rude … exactly.  

True, I never like it when women speak to me as though they are speaking to a child or grandchild.  Heck, I was probably OLDER than those ladies!

I also understand perfectly well that women often bully younger women.  I was raised by a mother who did that. Mom and her sister, my Aunt Betty, were capable of being perfectly HORRID to my female cousins and their children.  Mostly I held my tongue, out of respect, but occasionally I would pull a cousin over and say something along the lines of “We went through it too.”  

It bothered me a lot growing up.  I told myself my mother and my aunt spent most of their lives being bullied by their men, and since they were controlling women themselves, they took it out on younger women.  It had to go somewhere.  And then my aunt would always complain about how none of her kids and grandkids visited often enough.

There are many reasons I chose not to become a mother.  I spent years trying to figure them all out.  I wanted a productive and meaningful work life, of course, and didn’t see a way to have both.  My husband said, back in the day, that he assumed he’d have children, but he didn’t exactly move that agenda forward.  We both grew up in unhappy homes, but so do many people who go ahead and start their own families.  I was baffled as to why I felt so differently about children.

And, of course, there was my mother.  My mother, who actually told me, when I was considering my options in my mid-thirties, that I wouldn’t be a good mother.  My therapy group was horrified when I shared that story.  To me, it was just Mom being Mom.  It wasn’t until years later, when I became aware that I’d been sexually abused, that I was able to put it all together.

It was simple, really.  I didn’t want to bring children into the world who would be as unhappy as I’d been.

Many people in my life today tell me I would have been a good mother.  I doubt it.  If I’d been able to squeeze twenty years of therapy into five, and been finished by the time I was still a viable motherhood candidate, maybe.  I know what it feels like to be protective.  I’ve been a good Kitty Mommy to three pair of cats over the years.  The two I have now probably have the healthiest, and most aware, Kitty Mommy possible.

And that’s it right there – AWARENESS.  Yes, many unhappy adults have become good parents.  Many abuse survivors have found healing and joy in creating families of their own.  When I ask myself why so many unhappy people have had children, and have become parents – good ones or otherwise – I think that’s the key.  I was miserable for most of my life, and I was AWARE of it.  Denial was something I never was good at.

I have heard many stories of women, and men, who only start becoming aware of the abuse they’ve suffered when they decide to have children.  I think there’s something about seeing and visualizing children, and seeing themselves as parents, that brings up a lot of stuff they may not have dealt with.  It’s a complex subject, and I’m not a therapist.  I just know that it wasn’t until after I’d spent a lot of my years coming to terms with childhood traumas, and starting to heal them, that I found the answers that seemed right to me.

I often say that it’s a shame I never had children because I would have liked some grandchildren.   I love children, and even as I move into my seventies and don’t often have the energy to spend too much time with them, I always enjoy talking to them and hearing what they have to say.  Kids are FUNNY.  

I also think that I get along better with people that are a generation or two younger than I, rather than people my own age, because my point of view never shifted.  I never became a parent.  At heart, I’m still just a kid acting out against my own.

Happy Mother’s Day, all you moms, grandmoms, sisters, aunts, nieces and cousins.  Mother’s Day will never be a day I can celebrate, but that doesn’t mean I can’t love and appreciate you.  Just please, every once in a while, save a place in your minds and your hearts for those of us who made a different choice.

I promise next year I’ll make a reservation.