This is going to kind of a self-pitying post, and I just want to put in a disclaimer up top saying that I’m aware of how I sound, and that I’m really not wallowing like this most of the time. I just wanted to schedule a short wallow and move past it.
We’re really broke right now—the Mister is selling plasma so that he can fill the car with gas and get to work kind of broke. And it’s all going to be okay, we’re getting aid, he will get paid on the 13th, rent is paid, but right now? We have about $7 in cash, and that’s probably all going to be spent on laundry. (We did get approved for a small amount in food stamps, so we’ll have that and will not starve.) But that means we can’t go out to dinner on Mother’s Day; I probably won’t even get a card. And I know that it’s only provisional motherhood at this point, but it bothers me in part because of how awful Mother’s Day was when I was pregnant with Cricket.
That year my grandmother had just moved in with us after her second stroke; we kids made a huge brunch for the ladies, including a weird (but delicious) idea of my own, bananas Foster sweet rolls. And at no point was it suggested that I might be included in the mother category, and I got really upset and ended up fighting with my mom about it, on Mother’s Day, in the classiest of moves. Last year, we did nothing, but Mr. Book got me a card, and I was incredibly happy about it. Ruth and Nora called the day before, on Birthmother’s Day, so I could hear the baby babbling on the phone—they also sent a Birthmother’s Day card.
This year, I will make cupcakes. I can get a yellow cake mix for eighty-eight cents, and then eat all the cupcakes I want (we have leftover frosting from the Mister’s birthday). I just really don’t want to be sad that day. I know how pathetic this sounds, but I think to myself, Well, it makes sense to be sad on Saturday—it’s a holiday about losing the kid, and that’s sad. But on Mother’s Day, I don’t want to be sad. I know that the Buddha accurately diagnosed my problem: if I did not desire to go out to dinner on Mother’s Day, I would be fine. It is the wanting that hurts. I’ve picked up this cultural thing, I guess—the way that I think one should have cake on one’s birthday.
So that is an end to the whining; I have written it down, I can look at it, and now I’m moving past it.