Mother’s Day is just around the corner and it’s my favorite holiday, even when my darling son forgets to pick up a token Hallmark card – or – more importantly – do some sort of task that I tell him is far more important than buying me anything. The past two years, I’ve asked him to learn songs for me. Last year, he and Cody sang “California” and “Grey Gardens” in the yard for Lina, Angela and me – and I was so overwhelmed with pride – passion – joy – whatever you want to call it – that I laughed, cried and screamed all at the same time; in an instant I reverted to being a girl in a Beatles’ video from the 60s.
The day I found out I was expecting my one and only child (at age 39) was like something right out of Juno. I had been so busy with work that I didn’t notice that “Aunt Flo” was a few weeks late – then my breasts started to resemble casaba melons - so just for the hell of it, I decided to buy a pregnancy test. I honestly had no idea that it was even possible for me to have a child. At 24, I had a serious illness and was told that I was likely sterile, and this seemed to be a certainty later in life when I tried to become pregnant - (with two different husbands and at least one fertility doctor who shot me up with hormones and made me feel like a science experiment. I figured that ship had sailed, and decided to focus on my career. Then – one day – miraculously – at a Korean deli on Lexington Avenue and 49th Street – the test turned out positive. So of course I bought half dozen more to confirm the results – and was soon reveling in the joy of knowing that – at last – I would be a mother.
This all sounds so hokey – but it’s absolutely true. I felt that a miracle was taking place inside me – that I would be fulfilled as a woman – that I suddenly had “credibility” – that I could be one of those women who digs into her pockets and pulls out pacifiers and Pampers instead of $25 mascara and xanax…
And – despite some bumps along the way – I have never regretted my decision to have my first (and only) child at age 39 – even though – when celebrating my 40th birthday with friends – I had to rush home because he was teething molars. As he grows up and surpasses me in so many areas (he’s calmer – more confident – and definitely better in math than I ever was) – the pride deepens.
I’m not sure all of this effusive display of motherly pride sits well with my son, however. His friends like to come to our house – and the only time I go into “manic mommy” mode is when they either (a) wrestle in the back seat of the car or (b) try to have wild parties when I’m not home. Having the boys over makes me happy and that I have a purpose in life other than to moan about being caught in the existential vacuum or having ugly feet or whatever bee is in my bonnet at that particular moment – but according to my virtual daughters – it might not be a good idea to be too friendly with my son’s friends…”Be sure you act like a true parent,” they say, “you’re not their friend.” So I worry about this and try to be as stern as possible – but who wouldn’t want to watch them play Ding Dong Ditch? (Rhetorical question, as always).
On the flip side – I worry that my child never sees me in a good mood. When we interact, it’s either first thing in the morning – when I’m trying to get him to wake up (or rushing off somewhere) – or at the end of the day – when I come home, exhausted, and complain because no lights are on, the doors are locked, the dog needs to go out, the cats haven’t been fed, the house is a mess – and gee – even though it’s midnight – I have to do laundry (despite having given him lessons on the proper way to separate white, dark and light colors, which detergent to use, and how to fluff and fold). I know that the right thing for me to do would be to force him to do his own wash – but then I worry – will he have any image of me other than as a shrill complaining bitch?
I think it’s a natural tendency to overcompensate for what one feels was missing from their childhood. What I missed most was transparency; everything was a deep dark secret – so I try to be as candid with my son as possible – and not let him harbor dark thoughts that maybe he did something to cause conflict – problems – issues. But did I go too far in the other direction?
My only consolation is that if you ask yourself the questions – you care about the answers. So hopefully – as he grows up and I grow old – he’ll like me enough to serenade me when I’m too old to dream – and by then learn “Sans Souci” and all of the Rufus Wainwright songs I’ve been requesting for the past three years….or – in the alternative – get the hair out of his face so I can see his beautiful blue eyes.
(Note to Dylan’s future wife: don’t hate me because he’s “my son, my son”).


