Mother's Day Hangover

Mother’s Day came and went last Sunday.  This is my third Mother’s Day as a mother, but nothing has beaten the one right before I became a mother.  I celebrated with my family and my husband’s family in a sweet lunch out.  Tommy gave me the wallet I’d been eyeing for months, the one that I could fit my phone into and toss in my diaper bag without having to think twice.  At 37 weeks pregnant I was close enough to be anticipating with sweet excitement the arrival of this baby.  Little did I know in exactly one week I’d be holding him.  So you see- perfect. 

This past Mother’s Day was nice.  It included breakfast out with my little family and dinner home with my extended family.  All in all it was a day filled with sweet, harmonious family moments.  The kind of day Hallmark tries their best to create.

But I found it hard to enjoy. 

I always find days that are supposed to celebrate me hard to enjoy.

Part of it is the fact that I put a lot of pressure on these days to fill some unmet need in me.  And of course they can never stand up to this pressure.  For some reason I need permission to articulate my needs and desires.  Days like Mother’s Day or my birthday give me that permission.  I would never spend the money on an expensive wallet that I’d been coveting for months, but if Tommy “grants me permission” in the form of a gift I suddenly feel worthy of the luxury.  Days like Mother’s day give me permission to feel worthy of being celebrated, pampered, and put first. 

So I anticipate these days with a large amount of expectancy.  I’ve stored up months of wishing and waiting to be noticed, appreciated and celebrated.  And all of a sudden one day bears all the weight of my hopes and dreams in the unmet recognition department.  And of course a single day will crumble under all that weight.  I found myself strangely emotional and sad on the Saturday before Mother’s Day, knowing I would yet again be disappointed.  Not because my sweet husband didn’t try, but because nothing could fulfill that many months of need and expectancy. 

Because my husband did try.  And he asked me time and again what I wanted to do for Mother’s Day.  But therein lies a deeper, more difficult problem.  I didn’t really know what it was that would make me feel loved, celebrated and pampered.  I didn’t know what I wanted.  At first I thought I was frustrated and hurt that my husband didn’t know me well enough to create a day that fit me.  But when I really sat in it, when I really thought about what I wanted Mother’s Day to look like, I had no answers.  I don’t know me well enough to create a day that fits me.

Which was a particularly depressing discovery.  Not only do I need permission to express my needs and desires, but when granted said permission I am tongue tied, unable to articulate what it is I want.

I’ve talked a big game lately about how turning thirty has given me a whole new confidence and self-awareness.  The reality is that I’ve tricked myself into thinking that being sure in a small amount of personal preferences meant I’ve mastered the whole self discovery thing.  I’m not there yet. 

And the bigger reality is that at thirty years old I really need to stop waiting for permission to ask for my needs to be met.  I need to stop waiting for someone else to introduce me to myself and start figuring out what exactly I need and want in life.    

The thirties, for me, are about being bold and going after the life I desire instead of waiting for permission to be the person God created me to be.  If this is the case then I need to start getting in touch with that person.  It feels like sacred and true work.  But it also feels like clumsy work, awkward and uncomfortable.  Shouldn’t I know this by now?  Did I used to know it and forget?  It feels vulnerable and risky to try and fail at self-discovery.  Shouldn’t this come naturally? 

And yet I don’t want to be fifty and find myself disappointed yet again because another Mother’s Day has come and gone failing to meet the unmet needs I don’t know well enough to articulate.  I don’t want holidays to buckle under the pressure I’ve put on them because I can’t advocate for myself throughout the year.  I don’t want to limit my worthiness of love and appreciation to a few days a year.  It’s no way to live life really.