May 7, 2021

Of all the 613 mitzvot in the Torah, I’ve always found the fifth commandment to be the most difficult to uphold: “Honor you father and your mother as Hashem your G-d has commanded you, so that you will lengthen your days and so that it will be good for you on the land that Hashem your G-d has given to you” (Devarim 5:16).

Truth be told, I sometimes wonder if it would be easier for me to keep the mitzvah of offering the first of my fruits to the Temple (Exodus 23:19) — which doesn’t exist anymore — than to honor my mother and father, per Judaism’s specific decrees (which include the Herculean demands of not interrupting them and not sitting in their place).

I think it all has to do with the fact that when my family came to America, our familial roles became reversed: As my older sister and I quickly became fluent in English and learned how to navigate American culture, our parents were somehow cast into the roles of children and we suddenly started acting more like all-knowing parents.

Growing up, it was hard for me to show impeccable respect to my mother when she couldn’t properly order from an English-language menu or when she tried to forbid me from watching certain American sitcoms, like “Married with Children,” when I knew she didn’t understand enough dialogue to know whether the show was appropriate for her younger daughter or not. But that lack of respect wasn’t fair to either one of us, and I should have known better.

Because our roles had been reserved, I, for one, (I can’t speak for my sister) began believing I knew infinitely more than my parents at a much younger age than most children who weren’t refugees or immigrants. And that misguided certainty has lingered with me to this day.

When I was single, I never listened to my mother’s advice about dating. When I was planning a wedding, I listened even less (who needs 20 pounds of Persian cucumber at the buffet? But it turns out my mother was right). And now that I’m married with children (without all the scripted jokes and regular applause enjoyed by the eponymous TV show), I still don’t listen to my mother.

And how’s this for an admission: Mother’s Day is the bane of my existence, whether it is American Mother’s Day or Persian Mother’s Day. Yes, I get to enjoy not one, but two yearly opportunities to disappoint my mother (in recent years, she’s somehow gotten wind of Israeli Mother’s Day, but I’m not sure I can handle three such occasions). Somehow, I always seem to get into a fight with my mother on Mother’s Day. Other times, she’ll interrupt our fight to ask, “How could you battle with me on such a day?” and then remind me that it’s Persian (or Israeli) Mother’s Day.

Are there those who have lost their mothers and who wish they could spend just one more Mother’s Day with them? Of course. Am I an ungrateful daughter? Yes.

But sometimes I feel that Mother’s Day is to some children — even grown children — what Valentine’s Day is to some single people: another commercialized reminder of what they believe they lack.

Don’t get me wrong. I like Mother’s Day as an idea and ritual, especially if I’m the mother being celebrated. But do we ever stop to think about those who are estranged from their mothers, or who still haven’t felt they’ve earned their mothers’ love and validation, or even those who, yes, dislike their mothers?

Do we ever stop to think about those who are estranged from their mothers?

I had a friend who really didn’t get along with her mother (who now is deceased). My friend is one of the kindest and most loving people I know. So I couldn’t believe when she opened up to me about her childhood in France, where her mother often criticized and berated her. “She was rarely nice to me,” my friend confessed. “She still isn’t.”

One Mother’s Day, that same friend and I sat down for coffee early in the morning (before I picked up my mother for our annual Mother’s Day Kabob-a-Thon lunch). Suddenly, my friend gasped, “I forgot to call my mother today!” I was shocked. I thought she hated the woman.

“Bonjour, Maman!” my friend chirped excitedly after she dialed the number and excused herself from the table for a moment. When the call had ended, my friend was all smiles.

“Your mother must have appreciated that you called,” I said.

“What?” my friend responded. “The first words out of her mouth accused me of waiting until the end of the day (it was already almost night time in France) to call her because I’m a ‘neglectful’ person.”

I almost choked on my overpriced tea.

“How do you do it?” I asked. “How do you manage to enjoy Mother’s Day when your mother makes you feel so bad about yourself?” Her response was incredible:

“It’s easier for me than for others because of the physical distance,” she said, “But if my mom lived in Los Angeles, I would have taken her out today.” Before I could interrupt, she continued, “Honoring my mother isn’t about validating her hurtful behavior; it’s about maintaining my own integrity and doing something which ensures I stay true to myself.”

“And what’s that?” I wondered.

“Being a kind person,” she said. “That’s who I am.”

“You’re truly kind,” I said. “And how would you manage to celebrate if your mother was sitting right next to you in the car or at brunch today?”

“Listen,” she said, “Everyone who ever struggled with a difficult parent eventually learned to be his or her own mother or father. I can celebrate Mother’s Day as a way to recognize that despite her limitations, my mother raised a good daughter (me). I also really enjoy Mother’s Day because I get to celebrate myself — the adult me who, from time to time, ‘goes back’ to mother my inner child, the eight-year-old little girl who needed so much more than she got. I try to give that little girl all of the love and acceptance she never had.”

“That’s really amazing,” I responded.

“I think so,” said my friend. “It is possible to recognize your mother while also hugging yourself on a day like this.”

That Mother’s Day, I took my mother out to lunch. She ordered the simplest thing off the menu and enjoyed it with a glass of tap water (despite my pleas that she should order a soda because I was paying). As for me, I helped myself to a huge plate of shish kabob, rice and grilled vegetables, with a nice glass of bubbly Moscato. It was a wonderful day.

Tabby Refael is a Los Angeles-based writer, speaker and activist. Follow her on Twitter @RefaelTabby.