Jeremy Eaton

There is no way any of us can ever pay back a parent for the work they’ve done.

I was seven years old when my mom and I lived in Piney Points, Texas. I remember the mornings. My mom, six feet, black curly hair, white-and-red polka-dot dress, charging into my bedroom like a drummer man working downtown Felton, Nevada, flinging open country checkered curtains, morning sunlight flooding onto my yellow bedspread, my mom wishing, willing me to greet this good morning, making me feel that it was just great, just glorious to be at the beginning of this day, this remarkable, fantastical day, and loving me right from its start.

I remember now, how she was available to me, at any moment, when she was home. I knew that nothing was more important than my well-being, and I knew too that very high up on her list of things that must be done was tending to my food, clothes, scrapes, boredom, and play.

She was there at bedtime telling me stories, wonderful stories, bustling around both sides of my bunk, tucking me in, fluffing pillows, and telling me where the prince was that night. She made magic on demand. And I was one of four children. She filled each of us up and did it again the next day, and the next day, for many years.

My mother always worked a full-time job, first as a data processor on a 40-hour-a-week slave ship and later as a nurse. And since this was in the 1940s, ’50s, and ’60s, it was back when mothers did the housecleaning, the laundry, the knitting, the ironing, the grocery shopping, the cooking, the keeping the family lashed together. She raised four kids and kept a husband. I do not know how she managed, but I do know that on my best day I’ve never worked as hard as she did on any given Tuesday.

There were times that were not so bright for me and Mom. In my teenage years I was driven into a frenzy about being watched, being kept track of. What was for her love and concern was for me a stripping of privacy, a strangulation of my right to be me. It used to drive me into a rage. And I’ve had my years when I was certain I knew how the world was run, more precisely, how the world ought to be run, and I knew she didn’t understand what was so obvious to me, and worse, far worse, refused to learn.

Time passes. Having become a parent, I’ve learned that a child will never express gratitude, which is best since there is no way any of us can ever pay back a parent for the work they’ve done. That’s simply too big a debt ever to reimburse.

But just because you can’t settle a debt doesn’t mean you can’t nip it in the heels now and then.

In that spirit, I offer a Mother’s Day proposal, to wit: Once your mom hits 70, give her a free pass. That is, she’s done it, she’s been nurturing, caring, has given money, oh, God, has she given you money, has provided a home when you went belly-up, has seen and heard you do horrible things, stupid things, selfish things, unspeakable things, and has not stopped loving you, stopped believing in you.

She still provides that last place left. And for that, after the age of 70, she should get time off.

A free pass means no more begging for money, no more piling on complaints about the world such as “My husband’s unfaithful.’’ “I’m having a terrible time at work." “I'm an alcoholic.” “I’m having an abortion.” “I got fired.” “I like to have sex with small animals.”

It means refraining from giving nutritional warnings about her dietary habits, or giving her a bad time for not being a feminist, or for her disapproval of gays and lesbians, or for hating rap music, or watching a lot of TV, or thinking there’s too much sex and violence in the country, or for liking politicians or disliking politicians because of the shape of their jaws. The idea is, you cut your mother some slack.

It means that one resists the temptation to lay out problems that Mom can’t resolve anyway. Mom is tired, Mom is old, Mom wants to hear about the promotion, the contented domestic life. If you don't have either of those, find some good things to talk about. Try “It’s a beautiful day out here.” Try “I feel so good I’m going to go to the: [choose one] a) beach, b) zoo, c) symphony, d) mountains.” As for the rest of life’s entirely predictable hassles, that is what spouses, friends, shrinks, and bars are for.

Everyone has complicated lives, even parents.

I have lately become friends with a middle-aged woman who has three grown children and now lives alone. Her husband died many years ago. She is mom to a 35-year-old son, 31- and 29-year-old daughters. My friend was, by all accounts, a good mom, but as her offspring, one by one, turned 19, 20, 21 and went off to college, she began to count down the days until the last one left.

She longed for her own life, a life where she would come first, where she would have her own mind, plan her own day exactly the way she wanted it. And so, after the youngest left, my friend enrolled in law school and became an attorney. She works for the state now, with professional respect and a secretary, a new car, and a car phone.

She loves her new life. She had become weary of being a mom, which, I have learned, is common. Although that said, still, when the old black phone on her nightstand rings, and one of her children is on the line, motherhood jumps in, out of habit, duty, and yes, mother love. And her children, who have all found upper-middle-class lives, will often talk about their unhappiness in marriage or the latest betrayal at work. And they will talk for an hour or more, and finally the old black phone returns to its cradle and my friend will sit up on her bed and cry, sometimes sob, and usually spend several days worrying about her child, who is distressed and far away.

My friend has 15 more years, until the year 2007, before she reaches the free pass.

There was an article in Esquire last fall about the men’s movement. You recall the men’s movement, where guys get together for a weekend and roll around in the mud, beat drums, talk about the oppression of women. They cry, they bond, they find the king within. And so the reporter was talking to one of the men who said he had a lot of anger to work out, a lot of emotions to work out about his father. That man had just ponied up $500 to participate that weekend. The reporter said, “Five hundred bucks? Why not buy an airplane ticket and visit your dad?”

Exactly.

At 70, whatever’s done is done. If our moms are over 70, why don’t we just buy an airplane ticket and visit Mom, and when we get there, wrapped and ribboned present in hand, wearing clean clothes, fresh haircut, why don’t we say, “Thank you. I love you.” And then, by God, be nice for 48 hours and leave.

That could change the world.