Motherhood’s Dirty Little Secret

One thing about having kids is, it keeps you posted. Whatever is upcoming, you’re sure to get a play-by-play. This is the upside you need to remember when, say, it’s the crack of dawn and someone has pried open your eyelids, announcing, “Countdown to Mother’s Day!”

In this kind of a situation, there is the temptation to think Bad Mom thoughts. Things like, “When did these kids learn to talk like TV news anchors?” And, “Maybe they can still be tricked into believing that, even without eyelids, I’m still asleep.”

Mustn’t think those thoughts. Must be grateful for the assurance that, in your house, no holiday will ever be forgotten, which is good, because another thing about having kids is, there’s a new holiday about every week.

From King Day to Presidents Day to Arbor Day to Christmas, they stretch out like a solar system of party planets, each with its own gravity. And in between, there are the little fly-by rituals that aren’t holidays, exactly, but that still must be observed--the science fairs and history days and intermittent edicts that involve, say, building scale models of California missions out of, like, plaster of Paris and pinto beans.

Fortunately, you won’t be missing even one of these to-dos, because, as a parent, you have a built-in party consultant (who can also double as a living wake-up call). But I digress, for today’s subject is, of course, Mother’s Day, the to-do that, without this week’s countdown, is--if you’re like me--the easiest to forget of all.

*

My mother used to roll her eyes when we were kids, counting down to Mother’s Day. Though she likes a nice brunch as much as the next gal, she never got appropriately worked up about the pomp and pageantry. “Really, don’t get me anything,” she’d always say.

Later when we were older, we still found her insufficiently festive--the price, we decided, of being someone who, unlike us, poor soul, wasn’t an expert on everything. Then I became a mother and discovered the meaning of the phrase “takes one to know one.” May arrived and, gift-hound though I am, when I opened my mouth, what came out, to my astonishment, was: “Really, don’t get me anything. . . .”

The problem was, heredity aside, I felt funny being feted for something I actually did for my own benefit. This is the dirty little secret of motherhood: It’s selfish. If womanhood were a career track, motherhood would be like promoting yourself.

No one guesses, because the whole business looks like such a hassle. There you are, lumbering around, going to the bathroom every five minutes, your belly as big as a beach ball, your feet so swollen they look like two hoagies at the ends of your legs. People think you need sympathy. They don’t hear that inner play-by-play that takes place to the accompaniment of your own personal drums and cymbals: “Make way for the Vessel of Life, the Radiant Bearer of Profound Secrets! Countdown to Mother’s Day!”

Later, because you are cursing like Popeye and screaming for your epidural, they don’t realize that you are feeling the rush of an explorer whose first mate has just shouted, “Land!” Still later, because you look like dead mom walking, they figure you see nothing in the mirror except the circles under your eyes. They weren’t there when a tiny person took your face in both hands, and said, “Mommy, I have rosy cheeks like you, don’t I? Mommy, you’re my best friend.”

The thing about being a mother, whether you give birth or adopt or open your heart to someone else’s child with the much-underrated love of a good stepparent--the thing is that there’s nothing selfless about it. It exalts you. It lets you behold yourself through the eyes of a child, maybe even through the eyes of God. This, I am convinced, is why so many teenagers see pregnancy as a quick and easy way to feel more important in the world, and why it’s only a half-truth to call the self-expression of motherhood a “job.”

*

Parenthood puts the human condition in context. You can see yourself, struggling with spelling, loving/hating your sister, being afraid of the dark, getting a crush on the cutest boy. How much dearer, how much more transparent you were than you realized at the time.

This is why setting aside a day to “reward” mothers feels a little like a reversal of gravity; it’s redundant to have a special holiday. If anyone deserves a thank you, it’s that midget prying at your eyelids. When you’re a mom, every day is Mother’s Day.

Shawn Hubler’s column appears Mondays and Thursdays. Her e-mail address is shawn.hubler@latimes.com