By Grace Acosta

I am by nature unsentimental and by definition, as a mother extremely busy. That makes me a cheap date on Mother’s Day. I don’t insist on flowers, gifts, or homage; I will often still pop a load of clothes into the washing machine to mark the occasion. The only thing I require is to be relieved of cooking, but I would be just as happy going to McDonald’s for a meal as anywhere else. I work hard for my family, but effusive praise for my labor embarrasses me - a simple card, a few well wishes, and a Quarter Pounder with cheese suits me just fine.

I get this habit of downplaying from my own mother. She is the queen of self-effacement and the titan of invisible service. Literally one of the hardest working people I have ever met, my mother is one who can’t sit and watch television for more than an hour, never takes labor-saving shortcuts in food preparation because she believes that the quality of the meal is impaired, and is the only houseguest I have ever hosted who swept out my garage every morning during her stay. (She also cleaned all my windows.)

She lived most of her life with my complicated, demanding father who had his good points certainly, but God-rest-his-soul, the man was a bear to live with. But because he was The Man, he was accorded far more attention and respect than anyone else in our family. My mother received only scraps of the honor that we heaped on him, but she never complained about her allotment. Indeed, she believed - still believes - that the male head of household is the glorious crown of a family tree, while the female counterpart is the root structure underneat valuable and essential, but hidden in the earth and limited to supporting and nourishing the fruit which blossoms above ground.

In my own life, I have often tried to imitate my mother’s patience, her kindness and her ability to make service look effortless. But when I screen the movie, “Grace the Homemaker,” in the cinema of my head, I see myself angrily slamming dirty clothes in the hamper, tearing up discarded schoolwork as though it were some kind of offending pornography and yelling to no one in particular that my children resemble swine. “Effortless” is not a word that immediately comes to mind as I view these snapshots, and I’ve not even gotten to the pictures of me trying to throw dinner on the table.

I was never, ever meant to be like my mother, but you’d be surprised at how long it took me to figure that out. I still struggle against her value system, which labels self-interest as immoral; it’s an effort for me to remember to feed myself in the morning before I feed the dog. I am not, however, criticizing my mother’s life choices. They have brought her peace in her old age. I expect that the choices I am making now, though different, will do the same for me. And for any mother, for any person, I believe that is good enough.