The Munchkin is heading back to preschool in September. You may remember last year when I bought her a special necklace and was rather emotional on her very first ever day of school. I feel less emotional this year. In fact, I’m rather busy preparing for my oldest son’s first day of preschool. The emotional aspects of that fact haven’t yet hit me. I suppose they will when I drop him off that first official day. Where has the time gone?

I asked her Mom yesterday about the time of her first day so I could send a card and something small. And then I started thinking about what that something small would be. And I realized that sometimes I don’t like being the birth mom. I find it hard to wrap my mind around what she wants and likes and needs when I am so far removed. Also, perhaps because I am now parenting boys, I just have a hard time even looking at gifts for girls.

I get overwhelmed at Easter and Christmas when all the froofy dresses are out for display and purchase. I cannot walk down the Barbie aisle. The pink overwhelms me and sends me into some catatonic state of unfeeling for the rest of the day. Girl stuff seems so foreign to me. Which is strange, as I am female and actually like pink things (though my favorite color has changed to green). I am not opposed to the idea of dolls and girly things. But, especially when I am shopping specifically for the Munchkin, I get extremely overwhelmed.

Perhaps I just expect to be able to know her better. To just instinctively know what she would like. To be able to know what size she would need, as sizes differ from brand to brand, by holding up a shirt and guesstimating her size. I can’t do those things. I don’t have that close, intimate relationship that she has with her Mom. I live on the outside. And most days that is okay as I am still allowed into the fold. But when it comes to buying gifts, I find myself frustrated. I want to know my daughter better. I want to know what she likes and eyeball her size and just better relate to her.

All the same, I haven’t yet found a good Back To (Pre)School present for her yet. And I’m still looking. Ideas?

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.