Where is the magazine for Failure?

Facebook posting: Happy Mother's Day momma! Now if we could just get all these lesser moms to stop thinking today is about them too.

>We lesser moms know who we are.  The ones who didn’t have five healthy tall creative brilliant sons.  The ones who waited and waited and waited to have babies; the ones who adopted and were rejected; the ones whose first-born was diagnosed with an incurable kidney disease that changed life’s coarse; the ones who had babies with birth defects and life-long challenges who wishes to have never been born; the ones whose lives took unexpected swerves and turns—oh wait!  Maybe that’s you too. 

A funny thing happened.  You were never signed up for lessons, joined any teams, extracurricular activities, music; Scouts; you ate Ramen with your hands sitting on the floor; fast foods; no fresh garden vegetables for you.  You never had responsibilities in the yard or house.  Have you ever mowed a lawn?  Done a dish? Were you encouraged to exercise?  About the only thing you ever did as a family was Paint Ball Wars.  War games of every sort and weapons were big.  Maybe the secret is that you were loved by a Mother Grizzly who fiercely protected you and accepted you as you were with no unreasonable expectations.  Maybe you think your mom is the greatest because she let you develop and grow into who you wanted to develop and grow into.  Is it the unconditional love that does it?  I thought it was music lessons, Little League, responsibilities, training, opportunities, travel, family vacations, family home evening and, yes, truly love unfeigned.  I was wrong.  But what do you expect from a lesser mom?

INCOMPLETE THOUGHTS ON MOTHER’S DAY 2011

May 8, 2011

A beautiful bouquet came.

“Happy Mother’s Day”

No signature.

My first thought, of course, was

Jeanne, our estranged daughter,

Whom we haven’t heard from in 20 years.

Or Amy, our moved-back-home daughter, in a career crisis;

Off on a camping trip.

I don’t fault her.  I’m glad she goes.

Maybe Ed, our special needs son, who complains

When expected to do a few menial chores.

His dad wouldn’t have helped him order flowers

From the Flower Patch.

He would have picked them from the yard.

The tulips and daffodils are exquisite now.

Brooke & Elizabeth?  No.

Perhaps they’ll drop by later.

Of course, it has to be from Brent and Jan

The only ones who live far enough away

To still love us.

****

 How can I sit and calmly file my fingernails on Mother’s Day morn

When I have so blatantly messed up my life’s calling?

Now sitting at the table enjoying fajitas – eggs, peppers, bean sprouts, onions –

Prepared by my husband

And watermelon – already!

I’m rich.

A bouquet of fresh flowers in the center of the table;

Baby roses, red roses, plus an array of multihued blooms and baby breath

From Brent, Jan, and family,

Who called at 6:30 this morn to wish me a happy day.

But I digress.

Mother’s Day honors great moms.

Mother’s Day should pay tribute to failed moms.

Moms who faced unusual challenges and failed.

I have had the opportunity to fail in so many ways;

being the mother of an adopted daughter;

a handicapped son;

a son who ran head-on into an incurable kidney disease

when barely 19 years old.

No need to enumerate;

The bottom line is

I failed them all.

A poem of compassion:

When I Read Shambhala Sun

or Tricycle, I wonder

who these people are.

They admit to an occasional

random thought,

but it’s clear they’re all becoming enlightened

or at least able to dwell constantly

in clear and empty space.

Or those Yoga Journal people –

Where everyone is thin, composed

and bends in all directions.

Or Fortune

where everyone’s a millionaire

a captain of success.

So where, I ask, is the

magazine for Failure?

For 30 years of falling and

recalling, “Be Here Now”?

For the continual recovering

from the storming –

from the endless repairing of the ship

and broken sails?

For the sick and heavy body

barely bending?

For the immense gratitude

in meeting once again

next months payroll,

next months rent.

                

Perfect Bound

By Richard Wehrman