Back to Moms

A couple of years ago, I wrote a very short post about being thankful for moms. That post originated from a partially abstract sense of gratitude and guilt, during a period of depression and loss where I became acutely aware of what and who I could still count on.

That gratitude was far from completely abstract—I very certainly could have put a finger on what I owed to my mom. But it was mostly an intellectual sense of gratitude, and over time I'm gaining a more visceral hold on the roots of it. When* I have kids of my own, I imagine it evolving into a thoroughly emotional and empathetic gratitude, but that's an aside for now.

This year, I'm the age my mom was when she had me. It's disorienting to try to picture myself in her shoes—I look around myself an am astonished at how few parallels there are between her life and mine at this age.

When I was a kid, I thought this sounded old. I thought it sounded like right around when people were supposed to be getting married and having their first kids. Which is to say, being grown-ups. But now, I can't reconcile that notion with my pervasive inability to accept and respect myself as an adult—someone worthy of the respect of other adults, a reputation as a professional, or a partner's lifelong commitment, let alone the charge of trying to create a better life for a little one who thinks I'm way better than I really am.

I can get a grip by thinking about exactly how things would change if I were to have a child right now. I get a pretty clear sense for what I would be unable to do, or more to the point, what I would have to do.

I'd like to think I wouldn't resent a minute of it, and I believe my mom didn't, but I often wonder what she felt, or still feels, when reflecting on what she gave up in order to devote herself to me.

The point is that no matter what she felt when facing the burden of being a mom at my age, and what's more, a single mom for the majority of her adult life, she never wavered. If she mourned any of her youth, regretted anything she missed out on, or was just plain exhausted, she never let on. And given my own lingering teenage selfishness, inability to contain my frustrations, and unwarranted fatigue, she seems nothing less than heroic.

My new-found appreciation stems from an inversion in outlook. Whereas I once understood my mom's commitment to me in terms of what I gained from it, I now understand it in terms of what she sacrificed for it.

It's hard for me to imagine myself in the shoes of someone who didn't grow up with a mom, hard to imagine not knowing what I was missing. But someone with a close relationship to their father would probably look at me and think the same thing about my total inability to grasp what I might have missed out on in that regard.

What's relevant is that any person's value is measured not in what they give to you, but what they give for you.

While I'm still grappling with the idea that, no matter how much I do, I will never be able to repay my mom in this lifetime, appreciating the depth and breadth of her commitment to me is perhaps the most worthwhile step I can make in that direction.

The irony of course is that anyone who's committed enough to you to give themselves continually is someone who will do so without expectation of reciprocation and regardless of any recognition. Given that, real devotion can become easy to overlook.

So, try to remember that the people who need your appreciation the least probably deserve it the most, and that taking them for granted is a far greater disservice than being unable to return the favor.