Mother’s Day Meditation

The Lanyard – Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

__

Had a lovely conversation yesterday at a party with another mother, and it was the sort of conversation that was punctuated by our children’s needs, including one where her daughter brought to her the smallest crumb of the donut she was eating and proudly declared “I have something for you.” I loved how this mother explained that when she accepted the crumb, when she accepted, as we all would, on Mother’s Day, the clumsily folded pieces of construction paper with “I love you Mom” on them, it was the expression on her daughter’s face that made the gift for her. And so I thought of this woman as I was accepting my tissue paper flowers this morning and looking at the very proud and excited face of my kindergartner. I am grateful that she helped me understand the gift I am given.

And, later I thought of her again, and how she explained to me that she had never done well with mother’s groups or playgroups, that motherhood has been isolating. And I understand this — I have been hurt by playgroups, and know how bad the dynamics in a group of women can be when driven by competition and envy and gossip. But as I contemplate the acknowledgement that I think Mother’s Day is supposed to be about, I wonder who but another mother can understand what a mother does?

I marvel at my mother friends, the ones whose marriages may not have been what they thought they were bargaining for, the ones whose children have challenges that are sometimes overwhelming for a grown-up to contemplate, much less a small person, the ones who haven’t had a real night’s sleep in more than four years, the ones who struggle — that is, every mother I know, the ones with whom I have the trust to have gotten to share the struggles, to give the hug to, and say “It’s hard isn’t it, and you’re doing such an amazing job.” Or even sometimes I think what they need to hear is “You’re doing a good enough job.”

What I want to acknowledge them for is the strength they have to keep going when it seems they have no choice, how they make a safe place for their children when they have no safety net themselves, how they find the courage to be advocates and protectors. I want to acknowledge the vertigo you can feel, being all that stands between a child’s helplessness and a world that seems indifferent, hostile even, and to know that your job is is to strengthen the child to be launched into the world, to not need you anymore. To acknowledge that when you’ve found the strength to stifle a hundred selfish urges an hour, to wake in the middle of the night again and again, to patiently explain again and again, to listen, to clean up, to discipline, to forgive, to look for the best qualities in your child when he is manifesting none of them, to make your own mistakes, forgive yourself, and keep on trying, when you’ve completed the marathon that is motherhood to find further strength to let go. And perhaps most amazingly that these women, these mothers do it all so seamlessly that their children, their partners may never even know the weight they are carrying, the strength that they have.

Maybe it’s that the scale of what a mother does is rather hard to wrap your mind around. It isn’t something you can take for granted. Plenty of mothers are terrible, and even terrible mothers may be overwhelmed by the love for their children. But the mothers who give me strength — the ones who I know understand when I feel like I am about to break, who reassure me that I won’t — they are amazing mothers, with amazing children whom I admire and love. And as much as my mother friends have helped me to survive motherhood, I owe the most to my own mother, a woman who solves problems and makes it look easy, who I know would fight for me still, a woman who still makes me want to grow up to be just like her.

Nothing I give my own mother will ever be more than the lanyard, the construction paper, and still the best part of my day today was getting to talk to my mother on the phone. I know she cannot see my face on the phone, but maybe the acknowledgement of one mother to another mother, of what an amazing thing she has done as a mother may stand instead.

My Mother’s Day isn’t lacy or flower-filled, no civilized brunch with linen tablecloths and polished silver, or picnic concert of pops favorites, it’s a fierce acknowledgement that this motherhood business can leave you aching and bruised, weary and longing for your own mother, and still when your own child looks up at you, you’ll smile with tenderness and put that child’s needs ahead of your own.