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I Held it Together… Until Now

I had played it off like it doesn’t matter. I stated a disinterest. I talked about how I wasn’t participating and, darn it, it is just a stupid Hallmark holiday anyway. And then I read a poorly written poem and my walls came crashing down.

I still hate it. Mother’s Day, that is.

The day makes me so angry. It should be a day of celebrating but it never really will be. You see, since my three living children don’t share a birthday, I can grieve on the Munchkin’s birthday and not feel guilt. Well, that’s not 100% true because when I am in attendance at her parties, I feel guilt that I’m grieving because I should be rejoicing that I am one of the lucky, blessed few to get to be in the same room with my relinquished daughter as she grows a year older. But when I’m feeling that grief, I’m not short-changing my parented sons.

On Mother’s Day, when I’m left with grief for the daughter I placed for adoption or the daughter that we lost to miscarriage, I am short-changing the two boys that crawl all over me. The older one who puts on a super hero cape, firefighter boots and runs around the living room. The one who told me the other day that he does not, in fact, have a uterus in his belly. He just has food. The younger one who stands up and sits down and stands up and sits down on my lap and yells, “SIT!” over and over… which sounds funny as it is toddler speak and makes me giggle. The one who gives open mouth kisses any time he walks past me. The two boys who hug each other after they fight over a toy. The two boys who call each other friend. The two boys who smile at each other each morning like the sun sets on the other’s heads.

I should be rejoicing on Mother’s Day to be their everyday, awesome Mama.

But I do that every other day of the year. I love being their Mom and anyone who spends more than five minutes with me knows that fact. And that, in essence, is what I hate about Mother’s Day. The whole concept of only honoring mothers, in all of their many forms, one day per year. What about the other night when I stood by my youngest’s cribside and just rubbed his back as he was whimpering in his sleep due to teething pain? What about a few days ago when I held my oldest son in my arms and told him that it was okay to miss his daddy and yes, it was okay to cry? What about when I scattered roses on our local lake for the daughter I would never see, never hold, never hear? What about that first time I placed my oldest child into the arms of another mother… and what about every time I let her go again after a visit? And every single second in between?

I have been a mother since I saw the line on that pregnancy test in that badly tiled bathroom in 2003. I went into Mama Bear mode quite quickly and did everything in my power to protect that child. I was of failing health and I still made decisions with her best interest in mind, not even my own. And people want to tell me that doesn’t count? That was just a trial run? It was nothing?

In the end, I know that I am in charge of the definition of my own motherhood. And I am okay with that 364 days per year. Mother’s Day, however, trips me up. I can’t get around the fact that they don’t make a card for me and my strange motherhood. I can’t figure out how to celebrate and grieve and honor every part of my motherhood at the same time. I can’t figure out how to properly channel these emotions and put them to their best use. I can’t enjoy a day that refuses to acknowledge so many of my sisters… not just birth mothers but every single one of these mothers that is in a situation in which society doesn’t want to honor their mothering, their motherhood.

And so, the tears fall even though I swore that I would ignore the hoopla this year. I’ve been ignoring tweets on Mother’s Day. I’ve been ignoring gift guides. I’ve been ignoring it all. And it’s all smacked me in the face and reminded me that some people in this world view me as “less than” because I get pregnant easily and because I made choices along the way. And to that I say: my children, all of them, have something amazing in me. I may not be perfect. I may not have all the answers. But I have a heart so full of love and compassion. I have an amazing gift in my children and I’ll be damned if someone tells me that I’m not good enough simply because of x, y or z.

And maybe that’s the attitude I need to work on this year…