OPINION: Thoughts on Mother's Day

Dear Son:

Don’t ever worry about being “unplanned.”

You are a most intentional child.

I remember every milestone. The day I knew you were on your way. Your first day of school with your little red lunchbox, your first loss (a goldfish named “Sushi”), your first girlfriend, graduations from pre-school to college, first solo singing on a stage the dozens of concerts thereafter. The first time I realized the power of soothing you, of loving so unconditionally and being loved in return.

We went through the Buzz Lightyear period. You wore that costume day and night, including when we picked blueberries, with your inflatable wings poking up among the bushes and your costumed white knees got stained purple.

I’ve cussed stepping on your Legos with bare feet on the way to the bathroom in the night. We’ve worn Superman and Batman capes to the grocery store together. You’ve impatiently explained “Minecraft” and “Dungeons and Dragons” and computer programs to your clueless mom. Seeing the world through your eyes when we traveled, finding you “lost” in the school library at Chugach Optional. A few slammed doors and one wall punch in your teens.

We’ve missed nothing.

We’ve learned from each other. In the car, on the way to school one winter morning, we saw a car flipped upside down on Dimond Boulevard. I said, “That is why we wear seatbelts.” Later that night when I tucked him in, he said, “Thank you for teaching me about why we wear seatbelts.”

A couple of years later, we were rushing to soccer and you were eating a hamburger in your booster seat. I noticed you had stopped eating at a corner full of unhoused people begging for money. “Why aren’t you finishing? We are almost there.” You said, “I can’t eat in front of people who have nothing to eat.” Seeing your empathy at such an early age taught me to pay more attention to others.

Balancing a career and motherhood was never simple, but we made it work. Once when I had to travel for work and you were still in elementary school, I gave you a ring to wear until I got back. You met me at the airport, sobbing because the stone had fallen out. I scooped you up and said that it didn’t matter one tiny bit — you are here, safe and that is the only thing that matters.

I’d always wanted to be a mother someday but was lost as to the when and how. Then life gave me three weeks to decide. Necessary medical treatment for cancer would halt egg production — permanently. The indecision vanished and I made the only choices I could. Mating under fire, using new and fancy technologies that were impossibly expensive, yet each step of the way was blessed with grace — and became the miracle of you.

You were meant to be.

There’s a sentimental ache for the days when you needed me for everything from skinned elbows to encouragement after disappointments. But our journey has exceeded every hope and dream and continues to do so. There are times I nearly collapse with gratitude.

My own mother is long gone. It is the worst heartache I’ve endured. Each time I cook new recipes for you or repeat those tired axioms like “many hands make light work,” I am extending my love to you and my honor to her.

One year you forgot to call me until midnight on Mother’s Day. I will never forget the hollowness of those hours wondering if you’d remember me on that day. As you’ve unfolded as an adult, you’ve moved from “It’s just a stupid Hallmark holiday” to actually understanding why it might matter.

Now your texts come in almost daily.

“I got in!” or “Check out my new haircut,” your travel pics, the “goodnight, I love you” and “look at this new recipe I made” mean so much more than the seven seconds it takes for you to thumb these notes from afar.

Not being with you today is sad yet reflective of an important truth: Our children only really need us for a handful of years.

I take heart in not being with you today because you are launched, self-sustaining and have a full life with friends, hobbies, meaningful work, a new city and region of the country to explore. You are complete.

Love puts the salve on the hard things we face.

Which makes just about everything that life hands this mother bearable.

With love and gratitude,

Mom

Mary Katzke is executive director of Affinityfilms Inc., a nonprofit filmmaking enterprise that focuses on social issues and has been based in Anchorage since 1982.

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