May is now in the past and I am feeling like I can breathe again. This happens most years because I find Mother’s Day very difficult. Even though I have my own children and we have figured out a way to make the day our own, I still struggle for weeks before and after.

I can’t remember the last time I wanted to talk to or visit my mom. I’m not sure that I ever have. Even when my ex walked out and my world collapsed, I didn’t call her. It was days before we spoke. As a matter of fact, I have no recollection of a welcoming loving feeling ever coming from our relationship. If anything, I have always felt unsafe with her. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When I set out to raise my children, my driving thought was to not do it like my mother. I wanted a relationship with my kids. I wanted them to know that, even with all my flaws, I would support them. I wanted them to grow to love life and be confident in their skin. I managed to do that on some levels despite myself.

When they were young, I prioritized creative play and physical affection. They had many hugs a day and snuggled next to me or sat in my lap hour after hour reading stories. I often asked if we really needed to read Good Night Moon ten times over before bedtime and the answer was always a resounding yes.

We had discussions as soon as they could talk, and we talked about anything they wanted – even sex. I simply started answering their questions and we discussed until they reached a point where they were no longer comfortable and stopped.

I remember my son, age eight, sitting on the other side of the kitchen island as I kneaded bread. I was listening to a preacher as I usually did, and he was listening along. The preacher made a claim about the meaning behind a scripture passage, and my son said, “Mom, is that true?” And I didn’t say yes. Instead, I asked him to look it up and then asked what he thought. We discussed differences in Biblical interpretation and, when he tired of it, he walked away.

At times like this, I wanted my kids to know that they could ask anything without being ashamed or insulted or manipulated into a certain belief. And even now in his twenties my son will stand on the other side of a different kitchen island or pop into my bedroom at the end of the day to start a conversation – only now it may be me asking the questions.

My middle child started showing her love of art when she was only two or three years old. When I wasn’t paying attention, she would get out the washable markers or toddler crayons and create a masterpiece on the hallway wall. Never once did she feel shame. Instead, she would come to me and grab me by the hand and drag me to the spot to present her work with a flourish and a “ta-da!”  I would assure her that it was amazing and that I was glad she liked to draw but, since the wall wasn’t the best place, we would have to clean it off. Then we would do just that – together.

Eventually, I realized that the huge white canvas was the draw, and I went out and bought a table sized roll of white paper. It served her well for several years.

When my youngest – the first to leave my nest – moved out last August, she immediately wanted to know how frequently I would come to visit her, and would we be able to talk on the phone? The two of us have always been chatty and she was my right-hand girl. We share similar anxieties. There is an empty void in my home with her and her sister gone, but I thrill that when we get together it is so much like the best of times when they lived under my roof.

My epic failings aside, we laugh together frequently with me as the brunt of their jokes. I provide them plenty of material due to my propensity for social faux pas and misspeaks. We have so many little inside jokes and interests that the four of us can carry on funny and meaningful conversations exclusively over social media. And, when we do get together, we pick up like we have never been apart with loud talking over each other and reminiscing. And even without me, they have a sound and caring relationship with each other.

Since I have been a single parent, I have tried to get away from the typical Mother’s Day traditions that are so triggering for me and that has helped greatly with my Mother’s Day discomfort. There is no brunch or mother & daughter tea at church. There is no obligation to sit through a cringey Mother’s Day sermon and follow it up with lunch. Instead, we take the day or one in proximity and go to an amusement park or zoo and just enjoy being together. For several years it involved riding rollercoasters until I was stumbling tired. Every year, it makes me full in the best mothering way. To know that I have them and they have me and that, when that fails, they will have each other, is the best Mother’s Day gift.

Former evangelical homeschool mom and one-time missionary and pastor’s wife, Stephanie Logan, aka Snicklefritz, writes from her life story and four decades of experience in the evangelical movement. Her views and stories are her own.

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