An Ugly Mother’s Day

By Micah Pitner

Micah Pitner is a wife, mom, and water resources engineer. She loves Jesus and going outside. She makes a lot of messes.

Motherhood is full of surprises. For me, the biggest one is that I like it. This ever-changing and always-repeating role that I dreaded has become one of my greatest joys. I take pride in feeding my loved ones wholesome and tasty meals with a creative flair. I kiss their bruises, watch their tricks and find their missing shoes. Not every moment is happy, but my general impression is overwhelmingly – and shockingly – good. I love my fiercely independent girl and my wild, sweet boy. They are my delight.

But something ugly happens around Mother’s Day. In the year my daughter was born, there was a shift towards darkness in my heart. The posters in the grocery store and the radio commercials had been reminding me since Easter: Your mother is valuable! Let her know she’s special! Express your gratitude! And they were so, so right. My mom, like so many mothers in the world, is a treasure. A day to celebrate her is the tiniest of ways to say thank you. But I was about to celebrate my own first Mother’s Day with my four-month-old, and somehow, the message got garbled on its way to me. Instead, I heard, “You deserve to be treated like a queen for all you do! Someone had better appreciate you!”

And I soaked it right up.

Suddenly, every pair of socks I folded was a tally in the ledger of things someone should thank me for. Every quiet moment interrupted, every “Pick me up, Mom!” cry answered, and every tiny invisible sacrifice was a loan to be repaid on Mother’s Day—with interest—in the currency of words, gifts and a nap, for the love of Pete. The pile of perceived kindnesses I doled out grew to a mountain. By the time my big day arrived, my husband was so buried in the praise and honor he owed me on behalf of our daughter that he had no hope of succeeding. Instead of waking up on Mother’s Day anticipating the love of my little family, I rolled out of bed armed with dagger eyes and fuming sighs ready to hurl at my oblivious loved ones. “You mean I have to pack the diaper bag? The baby has to wear frilly socks to church! Do I have to do everything around here?!” I was not basking in the glow of my family’s honor and gratitude. I was a loan shark on the day of reckoning, and my debtors were woefully short on cash. I convinced myself that if my husband didn’t balance the scales within those 24 hours, it was because he didn’t value me enough, and my daughter didn’t love me. The lies stung, and I lashed out in response.

The internal storm clouds and self-pity continued as I helped out in the nursery at church. “Why am I serving on my day of honor?!” I didn’t think I could be righteously angry at the other moms at church since it was their day too, so I secretly added that offense to my husband’s tab. I was most of the way through the service before I realized that this wasn’t fun for anyone. I was miserable and on edge; I couldn’t hide my bitterness behind my fake motherly smile. My bewildered husband was trying desperately to decipher and thaw my mood. He had envisioned a fun day together as a family, but my biting criticism and unreasonable demands were frazzling his patience. I was ruining my own Mother’s Day.

I think it was our daughter who finally cracked the ice around my heart. She beamed the same innocent delight and untarnished trust at me that she had the day before, and no fake smile in return would suffice. She didn’t buy me flowers or bring me breakfast in bed (though she did crayon her autograph into a little card for me with help from her father), but there was no denying her affection for me. She loved me. She brought me such joy. And come to think of it, so did her dad. How could I forget? The wall I was building with bricks of bitterness and accusations cut me off from the very people I adored most. They were in the right. I was wrong.

I asked my husband for forgiveness. Could we just try the day again? He granted it to me because he’s more gracious than I am (and because it was Mother’s Day, after all). I learned something important that day: my husband and daughter will never meet my need to be valued. No matter how heroic my mom story becomes, and no matter how tuned their eyes are to seeing my sacrifices and their mouths to singing my praises, they can’t fill me up. They were never intended to. I can chase their appreciation for my excellence as a mother and wife, but it will lead me to the same place as pursuing value in my beauty or my wit: frustrated, tired, and empty-fisted. Not because I don’t have value, but because I’m trying to drink from the wrong well.

So this year, I’m going to drink from a different well. I’m going to seek my value in the eyes of my Father, whose love for me will never cease to be breathtaking and complete. There are rivers available here! More than enough. More than I can even take in. I am the precious daughter of the Eternal King; He looks on me with delight. I want to be washed in that water instead. And in doing so, I hope to release my husband and daughter from the too-heavy burden of giving me the value I need. And I will be free to enjoy the love and appreciation they express in their own ways as delightful ornaments, little pieces of joy for my already-filled-up heart.

And I’m going to take a nap. May it be so for us both, dear sister. Happy Mother’s Day to you!