The Luckiest Mother's Day

My husband forgot that Sunday is Mother's Day. I, in turn, said some mean things. Now I regret them.

Perhaps something like this has happened to you.

In my husband's defense, he only forgot Mother's Day for a maximum of five seconds. As in "hey, do you mind if on Sunday I—" and then he saw that look on my face, retracted his earlier statement and began to apologize. But it was too late. The aforementioned mean things were already coming out of my mouth.

In the moment, I had no defense for him. All I could feel was the rising up of this weird martyrdom no-one-appreciates-me monster I find gnawing at me on those days when I'm blitzed, whereupon I turned into the why-doesn't-anyone-love-me-especially-you-who-should-be-worshipping-at-my-feet-for-bearing-you-a-beautiful-(if-somewhat-taxing)-child beast, which yes, I admit, is not the fairest of beasts to become, not when your poor husband has briefly forgotten a Hallmark holiday that you don't really believe in in the first place.

Well okay, I believe in it a little bit. Enough to think my son should make me a card, and my husband should take us out to eat (or make) . But I certainly don't need a parade or a diamond tiara, even if, in the beastly moments, I act as though anything less won't win me back.

This venomous needy beast I can become, this desire to get what I believe I deserve (no matter who gets mowed down in the process), is an element of myself I don't like one bit. But it has been rearing its head lately—as I stress out about my latest book, and money, and potty-training, and fill-in-the-blank—and it often directs its wrath at—and only at—my husband. I've been loving this man for seventeen years, and not a day has gone by when he didn't consider my needs first or tell me he loves me. So why is it so easy to forget those daily affections- and be bowled over by the sum total of my partner's love—when I'm blind with beastliness?

Last summer, our little family spent a few weeks in . We headed to the grocery store to stock up, and found ourselves in the spice aisle, trying to find saffron (in case you were wondering, you should bring saffron to Vermont). There was a woman standing beside us, and she smiled at my husband's exchanges with the kid, before I sent them off in search of corn chips. As soon as they were gone, the woman turned to me and smiled.

"He's so good with your son," she noted.

I politely agreed, still in Brooklyn mode. But I could tell she wanted to say something else.

"I'm a single mom," she said, sidling closer, "and I had a lot of help from friends, but it would have been amazing if my childrens' father had loved them half as much as your husband loves your kid." Her next words were said simply and without judgment. "I just want you to know how lucky you are."

I felt involuntary, grateful tears spring to my eyes, as I watched her pick her Italian seasoning, wish me a good day, and go on her way. Grateful for what she'd reminded me of:

That I am lucky.

I want to love the luck I have been given, and the luck I have made. I want to honor it, and be kind to it, and help it make more luck for me. The only way to do that—I am coming to see—is remember, on those days that aren't Mother's Day, and most especially on the day that is, that, in may ways, my greatest luck is to have the support of someone in this with me. Someone who, let's face it, despite occasionally forgetting important holidays for a few moments, works far too hard for far too little money, is an active and loving father who rises to comfort our son's nightmares and change wet sheets, does the recycling and dishes without complaint, and took me out for a date at Frankie's Spuntino on Sunday night just because.

I guess it’s time to apologize. And celebrate what makes my Mother's Day happy.