Today on NPR, I caught a short segment about Anna Jarvis, the founder of Mother’s Day. (The fact that she hailed from West Virginia played neatly into their coverage of the state’s upcoming presidential primary.) Anna Jarvis, never a mother herself, spent years campaigning to establish Mother’s Day as a holiday honoring the “truth, purity, and broad charity of mother love.”
And after she succeeded, she promptly lost her mind.
Jarvis was horrified at how quickly the holiday was commercialized. She launched public crusades against those who sullied her vision, engaging in feuds that make today’s Twitter wars look quaint. Once, she saw a “Mother’s Day Salad” on a restaurant menu, ordered it out of spite, dumped it on the floor, and walked out. Absolute legend.
Sure, she acted a little nuts. But her aim was noble: “a day of sentiment, not profit.” She loathed the popularity of greeting cards, calling them “a poor excuse for the letter you are too lazy to write.”
Ooof. That one stings. I did send my mother a nice card. I even signed it. Underneath someone else’s words.
So in the spirit of Anna Jarvis—here’s something more honest.
Below is a photo from my family’s trip to Disney World in 1982. We’re on a ferry boat. That’s my mom in the sunglasses (which, by the way, are back in style). Next to her: five-year-old me, my sister Laurie in a Phillies cap, and our older brother Brian.
It was my first trip to Disney, though my mom likes to remind me she went on Space Mountain while pregnant with me during the previous family trip. Which explains so much.
What I remember most—aside from the rides—is the tantrum I threw at the hotel when my parents insisted I take a nap while my siblings went to the pool. I howled in the lobby, hysterical, swearing I didn’t need a nap. Which is basically the toddler equivalent of a drunk person insisting they’re fine to drive. I ended up sleeping like a corpse. And when I woke up, it was like everyone had forgotten my meltdown. No guilt, no grudge. Just clean slates and chlorine-slicked siblings.
That night, we went back to the park and rode the Haunted Mansion—my mom’s favorite. I remember curling up beside her in the Doom Buggy, ghosts swirling, graveyards glowing, and me, utterly safe.
That moment—goofy, fabricated, bought-and-paid-for by corporate magic—is one of the warmest in my memory. Which, yes, probably would’ve driven Anna Jarvis nuts.
But I like to think she’d make an exception.
