The Coffee Table

Nix Expectations

When my children were little, my absolute favorite day of the year was Mother’s Day. We lived in Louisiana then, just a bit north of New Orleans. Our tradition was to go to the Audubon Zoo, where legendary singer Irma Thomas gave a free Mother’s Day concert every year. Right by the seal pool. We took a picnic of all my favorite things to eat: Lox, bagels, cream cheese, Milano cookies, and a bottle of champagne. We all sang and danced and visited with the seals. Nothing could be better.

When we moved away from Louisiana—to New Mexico—I’m sure there were still Mother’s Days. But I don’t remember any of them. We had no specific tradition. And, over time the holiday lost a bit of its significance. Which was fine. The kids were growing up. We were all busy.

Somewhere in the fuzzy facts of history that exist in my mind, I remember Mother’s Day as having been originally established by Julia Ward Howe (the abolitionist who wrote “Battle Hymn of the Republic”) as a day of peace, intended to inspire the eradication of war. 

But apparently the Mother’s Day we have come to celebrate as an official holiday was created by Anna Jarvis in 1908 as a way to honor her mother. It became an official holiday in 1922. But inevitably, the card and candymakers moved in and commercialized Mother’s Day. Anna Jarvis protested. She spent years, later in life, trying to get Mother’s Day off the official calendar.

My trips to the New Orleans zoo didn’t feel commercial in the least. It was free. Communal. A whole lot of mothers, surrounded by their families, dancing, singing and laughing, amid picnic blankets laid out all over the ground. When that was lost to me, Mother’s Day ceased to be an important holiday. 

I know my kids gave me cards or doo-dads—things that made me smile. But it was no longer my favorite day of the year. I agree with Ms. Jarvis that the commercial marketing of Mother’s Day soiled any solemnity that might have originally been associated with the holiday. The ubiquitous reminders that it’s time to spend money on Mom make us expect something joyous. And we’re let down if it doesn’t happen.

I had pretty much forgotten about Mother’s Day this year. I really didn’t think I’d hear from any of my kids—and that was fine. My son works on Sundays. I don’t need any more doo-dads. I don’t know if the “Soul Queen of New Orleans” is still singing in the zoo on Mother’s Day, but even if she is—the drive from Eureka Springs is a bit far for a picnic. So I just planned to go about my business.

Saturday morning—the day before Mother’s Day—I was loading up my van to travel to a music jam in Berryville Square, when a car whipped into my driveway and pulled up behind me. I live in the woods. Seldom get visitors. Who was coming to visit at 8:30 a.m.?

It was my son. Armed with lox, bagels, and cream cheese. We traveled to the Farmers’ Market music circle together, and my daughter joined us there. How lovely!

Some folks tell you to always expect the unexpected. I get that. It’s good to dwell in a state of preparedness. But I think the obverse also carries weight: Don’t expect the expected. This mindset heightens the loveliness of a surprise.