The Chronicles of Munchkin Land

It looms. Is it possible to sleep from Friday evening until Sunday morning and still manage to take care of the boys? Probably not. And this is what I hate.

I should be happy that my Husband isn’t working on Mother’s Day. I should be elated that we can spend the day together as an immediate family. I should be excited to have these moments with my boys, with my Husband. And on the one hand, I am! I’m a blessed Mama. There’s no doubt about that, if you ask me. I made it through both of those (complicated) pregnancies with most of my health in tact. My boys are healthy. True, one is going through the AWFUL TWOS (terrible doesn’t begin to describe what’s been going on lately) and one has decided that naps are so last month but they’re awesome. (And cute to boot.) And I already know what my Husband got me for Mother’s Day (it so rocks) and I’ll be honored to open it.

But then there’s the other hand.

I miss her. I always miss her. But there are days when her absence physically hurts. Mother’s Day is one of those days. I thought it would get easier after my boys were born and I could stand up in church when they asked the Mothers to stand and not have eyebrows raised. But it hasn’t gotten easier. In fact, in many ways, Mother’s Day has become increasingly more difficult.

Maybe it’s the way I know that my boys’ eyes light up when I walk into a room (most of the time). Or maybe it’s the way one says “I love you” with words and the other says it with smiles and smooshy-faced kisses full of slobber and tongue. Maybe it’s the way I know that, as of right now, I am the center of their lives even if various grandparents are cooler at times. I’m the one that they cry for at three o’clock in the morning. It’s me. I’m the Mom. And on certain days of the year, the reality that I am not her Mom hits me hard. I accept it, of course, as you can’t change reality. But it doesn’t change the fact that it hurts.

And so I try to find a balance in my two hands. I try not to look too sad. I try to be happy enough. I try to make memories to cherish for a lifetime. But there are always the two hands. There’s always a Munchkin missing. There’s always an empty spot at the table, in my heart.

And it won’t ever change. That’s the rub.