Debby Does…

Yesterday, apparently, was Mother’s Day. A day that, originally, was about more than brunch and flowers. It’s a day that always gives me pause, for a few reasons, which I shall not get into.

What I can tell you is that my late mom’s philosophy about Mother’s Day was simple: if you do it right all year, the day is superfluous.

Judy always had to use a good vocabulary word.

And, I did it right all year. My mom and I were inseparable, the best of chums. We baked and cooked together; watched crime dramas, the Philadelphia Eagles, and the Indiana Hoosiers with each other; we vacationed, shopped, dined, laughed, talked, and everything else you can imagine as a family, all year long. And, though we did celebrate Mother’s Day, it was usually just a chance for us to try out a fancy new Barefoot Contessa breakfast recipe for us and anyone who needed some TLC or some mothering.

When I think about yesterday on this Monday, what I realize most of us need is a bit of mothering. I know it’s what I miss most about my mom—her innate ability to know when I needed soft boiled eggs, a squeeze, or her signature, “what’s wrong, lovey?” Mothering, it’s an art, not singular to mothers.

Go to any Pride event and there are middle aged women like me giving out “Mom Hugs” to anyone who doesn’t have an unlimited supply (or any) at home. I remember my first haircut after my mom died. Linda, who has done my hair since 1992, brushed and washed it so gently that it brought me to tears. I needed some mothering more desperately than I could have known. My relationship with my godmother, the indomitable Bertha, has grown exponentially since my mom, her best friend of 74 years left us. I’m her connection to Judy and she worries about me and fusses over me just like my mother. Don’t even get me started on my girl Karen and our dear Sharon.

I also realized that, while I’m not a traditional mother, I am born to mother. I’m at the ready with the casserole and the soup when you’re sick. I’m the teacher skipping lunch in her classroom so you can come out to someone that is going to hug you and tell you how proud she is of you. I’m that person who checks in on you at the exact moment that you need checking on. I’m sending you a little card, a little note, flowers, care packages, and the like because I know how important a dose of mothering is when you don’t have it.

As we get ready to move next week (cried typing that), I have a few people who mother me in ways they probably don’t know. I could list them here, but then they’ll cry and cry, which is not the goal. It’s just that, on this day, after the day, a week (or so) before the day, I am grateful, not just for my mother, who was a fucking rock star warrior queen, but for the mothering that I get from people who might not have gotten a card or flowers yesterday.

If you’re one of my mothering ones, thank you. Happy Mothering Day, a day after the day. You’ve helped me sleep, heal, and thrive!