05.13.07
The Progenitor
I am often amazed at people who tell me how lucky I am to have the mother that I do. In my sheltered, almost idyllic life, I naively believe that everyone has a more or less normal family, which presumably includes a happy mother (because there’s some things us guys just can’t swing as a nine-month do-it-yourself project, trust me on this one). I suppose it’s more telling about me that I remain surprised by revelations of missing or inadequate maternal elements among people I know.
Still, one cannot deny the fact that everyone does have a mother, mostly for the reason I lay out above. And when it comes down to it, regardless of the past, there is always love between a mother and child. Usually it runs both directions (it goes without saying that this is the case for me), but not always. I think, in the situations where that love is not reciprocated, the one party loves twice as hard to make up for the absent path. At least, that’s the way I think it should be.
With regards to my own mom, whom I have often mentioned here, it’s always been very hard for me to adequately say what I feel about her. I say it so often that, on the times when it’s really supposed to mean something, I find that “I love you” just doesn’t really cut it anymore. When unconditional, unbreaking, and unending love is the baseline, how exactly do you express a profound and sincere gratitude for the very act of birthing you?
Yes, I know the answer usually involves flowers. But I’m kind of broke here. The card I sent has flowers on it. I think. That counts, right? Imaginary flowers?
Come to think of it, that’s about the right answer. Think back, way back. If you were still in school nearing the middle of May (which is to say, if you went to school in New York at least) when you were very small, it’s likely that you did a project that meant folding origami flowers for Mother’s Day. I can still actually see them; glittering, gilded red-and-gold paper folded to a delicate pattern, with a green pipe cleaner sticking through the center. Every crease back then was the expression of love that it seems I can’t verbalize today. When the flower was brought home, it always said something to Mom, regardless of who your mom was; what it said can’t be put into words here, even if I busted out the big dictionary this morning. It was an expression of the deep, eternal love that a child has for his or her mother that is too pure and too perfect to be fettered by language.
I hope that, on this Mother’s Day, everyone can stop to take a few moments to send your mother some imaginary flowers. There’s no folding involved, and don’t feel obligated to rush the craft store for green pipe-cleaners. All that you need to do is simply call her and express that love that exists within you. Yeah, it might be hard; not everyone is good at origami (come to think of it, my paper flowers always seemed to end up looking like ninja stars). In the end, however, it’s not the actual expression that matters as much as the fact that that love exists; that the emotion has compelled you to take whatever steps you have in order to let her know you love her. Ultimately, chocolates get eaten, flowers wilt, and origami-and-pipe-cleaner art gets tossed. An imaginary flower lasts until the end of time.
Oh, and mothers, a quick little tip. If, at some point in your parenting career, your child just happens to, I don’t know, almost sell his little sister to another family for a Transformer, go easy on him. It was probably an Optimus Prime, and at the time it may have sounded like a really good idea.
Happy Mother’s Day, everyone.