Love Letter to the Motherless on Mother's Day

Daisy and I were walking home this morning with the familiar trundle of a stroller behind us. It is a perfect May Sunday. The trees are in leaf and the sun had risen above the rooftops, making the street feel like a gently swaying sea bottom. At 9:30 a.m. on Mother's Day there would be no excuses. I thought to myself, "That's a man pushing the stroller."

Not only was it a dad, but he was wearing suit pants and a starched shirt. His jacket was draped carefully across the top of the stroller and his briefcase was in the under-carriage. Was this the ultimate Mother's Day gesture -- taking the toddler to work? My mind reels still with the scenarios of the moment.

My 19th century brownstone neighborhood will be awash with dads and strollers this morning. Later, the restaurants will overflow with brunching families followed by a walk along the tulip-lined Promenade overlooking downtown Manhattan and the harbor. By dinnertime, when the kids are cranky and the week has to be organized, Mother's Day will be over. For the last two years I have allowed myself a small sigh of relief when six o'clock rolls around.

I neither have a mother nor am I a mother. My mom died nineteen months ago. I miss her a lot. One of the great things about my mom was that she was an eager listener. Sometimes I found her expectation that I would tell her everything intrusive. It was somewhat annoying that, at fifty, I was expected to call every Sunday but my brother could call every other week. But if I had stuff on my mind, my mother would listen for hours.

The other night I ran into Rosemary on the street. When I caught her up on what's been going (or not going on) in my life, I joked that the question I've always dreaded the most from my father -- "how's the weight?" -- has been replaced by "how's the book?"

"I didn't know your father felt that way about your weight," she commented, diving as always into the juicier topic at the cost of whatever I'm really trying to talk about. "I always thought it was your mom who gave you a hard time."

"No," I answered. "Actually she never gave me a hard time. Both of them were pretty good about it. It was --" my words caught in my throat and tears sprang to my eyes -- "it was after I lost weight. They were so proud. That's when I knew."

I don't think I've ever admitted that out loud before. When I was in my First Fat they didn't have any other Frances to love. When they got a comparison I realized that their great and good love for me had lacked something very small, a molecule of pride and admiration that my excellent master's degree and being a literary agent, my writing and my generosity with them, was not, quite, big enough to replace.

Last night I was heaving sighs all over the place, muttering "I want...something..." as I walked Daisy. We passed a popular restaurant whose doors were open to the mild air, spilling the smells of meat, garlic, wine and the sounds of a dozen conversations onto the silent street.

"I want to belong to that smell," I told her.

Is it a hole in me, as the psychological and addiction literature like to put it, or is it more that I am a puzzle piece seeking a picture to belong to?

Along with Father's Day and birthdays, Mother's Day is one of three acute celebrations of belonging. It is a tribute to child care, boundless love, hormonal survival and good intententions. But for me it is a day when I feel like a random puzzle piece.

As it is for Rosemary and her husband Louis. For my best friends, Bette and Will. For much of my Seattle posse -- Faith, Lawrence, Bridget. For my neighbor Caroline and a number of Facebook comrades. There is an inherent tragedy, in the Aristotelian sense of the word, for those of us who no longer have mothers and don't have the distraction of children. If the mood is right, we are primed for those subtle realizations of not having quite lived up to our mothers' dreams (or the realization that their love was slightly but perhaps damagingly flawed). When we walk our dogs or step out for milk, we are immediately aware of our outsider status. We know that if we took our small pain to our siblings or fathers, it would cause more pain.

Relationships Essential Reads

10 Ways to Spot a Love Bomber

Relationship Resentment

So we keep quiet, torn between loneliness and unjolly epiphanies.

I want to say two things.

Bette, Faith, Rosemary, Lawrence, Bridget, Louis and Will: I love you and if you want someone to listen to you forever, my mother taught me how to do that. And thank you for having listened to me.

Between us all we have thriving fruit trees, tomatoes and flowers, along with innumerable fish, three turtles, three cats, and somewhere between nine and nineteen dogs (that's another story). We learned to be good people -- to love and be loved, to help others, to be nice.

We're great parents and great kids. Happy Mother's Day.