Hallmark produces so many cards for so many occasions that the company has been accused of concocting holidays for the express purpose of selling cards that celebrate them. Whether the accusation is true or not, the phrase “Hallmark holiday” describes a holiday that exists primarily to benefit retailers—florists, candy companies, and, of course, the greeting card industry. Administrative Assistant’s Day, formerly known as Secretary’s Day. Boss’s Day. Sweetest Day. Clergy Appreciation Day. If the Hallmark people didn’t actually invent these holidays, they’ve certainly capitalized on them. A card for every occasion and every situation, right?
Well . . . no. No.
Hallmark’s wide range of schmaltz and humor and hearts and lace and flowers proved inadequate every Mother’s Day. For me, the holiday holds memories of standing in front of the card rack in a drugstore or gift shop, looking at every Mother’s Day card on display in an effort to find one that was at least vaguely accurate—nothing that would offend my mother, but something I could sign without feeling like a complete hypocrite.
I’m reasonably sure my mother loved me, but You’ve always been such a loving mother wasn’t an option. She was difficult: short-tempered and thin-skinned, with a no-holds-barred approach to arguments that weren’t technically arguments, because while my mother was allowed to express anger, I was not. I learned early on that a peep of dissent from me would be met with abject fury from her. Consequently, I also learned to repress and deflect.
A card with a line like You’ve taught me everything I know had potential. It wasn’t offensive or hypocritical, just open to interpretation. I’d think it was exactly what I was looking for—and then inevitably, Hallmark would negate their accidental accuracy by going on: You’ve kept me safe and dried my tears. You’ve always made things better.
She kept me fed and clothed. She took me to a doctor when I needed to go. She sent me to school. Physically I was safe. Emotionally I was not. She caused more tears than she dried.
I know I haven’t always been the easiest kid, but the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree wasn’t in the rack, and if it had been, it would have offended her. Neither Hallmark nor I would have damned her with faint praise: I expect you’ve done your best. I do think she did her best. So did I. I tried to be good so her life would be better, or at least so it wouldn’t be worse. If I were good, she’d be happy. Undoubtedly she preferred good behavior to bad behavior, but there was no making her happy. It took me a long, long time to realize that while your behavior may please another person, you can’t make someone else happy. Happiness comes from within. But the little kid in me, the one who fought a battle that could not be won, has never fully shed the weight of the responsibility of trying—and failing—to make her happy.
Things went wrong in my mother’s life, and I can’t fault her for not wanting to dwell on them, but she perfected the unexamined life. Phrases like “I’m finding myself” and “I’m figuring out who I am” always peeved her. She would say tartly that she knew who she was, and perhaps she did. I’m pretty sure I did—and my perception of her was more sympathetic than she might have imagined. I spent a lot of time figuring out how to best navigate our relationship, anticipating what she wanted and needed from me and trying to deliver. It was like negotiating a minefield. In order not to get blown to bits, I had to learn to read her.
Regardless of what you may have heard about Hallmark holidays, I assure you, Hallmark doesn’t make a card for that.
It’s strange to me that as complicated as our relationship was, I felt unmoored when my mother died. So much dysfunction, so many things unresolved, and such a sense of loss—not only her loss of life and my loss of a mother, but also the loss of what might have been . . . and the realization that what might have been never would have been. An opportunity that had never existed had somehow been lost.
And, oh, yes—the last time I spoke to her was Mother’s Day, three weeks before her death.