Mother's Day
I often spend the weeks leading up to Mother’s Day in a cleaning frenzy, lashing out at everyone who trails mud through my house. The days before, are typically spent in pajamas. Years ago, I would call in sick to work faking a cold, my body feeling thick like molasses, stuck to my sheets. My raccoon eyes and unkempt hair a warning to those who loved me to stay as far away as possible. In recent years, I have learned to book a couple days off entirely, because of the emotional hangover afterward.
This isn’t to say they don’t try. My little family of three is lovely, and I am bombarded with beautiful “Love you Mom” crafts, flowers and presents. I am whisked away for brunches, and manicures, massages, and gorged on homemade desserts. I have been taken on trips, written love poems by my husband, and asked for a list of each, individual present I could possibly desire.
Just like every mother claims her child to be the best of the bunch, every child claims her mother to be the same. But I’d be lying if I said my mama wasn’t special. My mom was a feisty, life of the party type, and although that came with its’ own set of challenges, it meant that I was never judged. If I stole her car, she would be mad, but ultimately make fun of my inability to drive. When I had friends get drunk, and sick, unable to call their respective parents for fear of repercussion, my mom swooped in to make a phone call claiming an adult-supervised sleepover would be taking place. And when I didn’t leave the house for weeks, she’d cuddle me, and force me to the doctor while I cried and vomited in the backseat. She was fiercely proud of my accomplishments, and endlessly empathic of my failures. And now she’s not here. I’ve lost my cheerleader.
I’ve mostly gotten used to it; the longing for her hugs are constant, but not so pronounced. Like the dull back ache from a sport’s injury, not the trauma that brought it there. I was 21 then, and I’ll soon be 28. The big events hit me the most: birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, Easter, as I’m flooded with memories and sadness of her missing out. Mother’s Day, of course, is the hardest. It’s the day I spend sobbing like an infant, wanting nothing more than her touch. It is the day I drink too much tea, and eat entirely too much chocolate, trying to keep my eyes pried open for long enough to say my “thank you’s”. It is the day I lash out and call my husband names, and the day I curse people’s smiling faces on social media.
Thankfully though, credit due fully to my family, it is the day I, have real (albeit fleeting) smiles. And it is the day I giggle in the sunshine, enjoying ice cream. It’s the day I spend being praised, and the day I spend surrounded by love. Being motherless is hard; being a mother makes it better.
