I wrote a post about Mother’s Day.
About what I thought it’d be like, and what it really was like.
Visions: breakfast in bed, homemade cards, flowers, etc (Hallmark commercial inspired)
Reality: lots of family, lots of activity, lots of love…especially wonderful? A brand-spanking new niece to love and snuggle.
But you know what? It all just sounded selfish. I couldn’t make the words sing, I couldn’t find inspiration to tell you about MY day and MY baby and MY husband (which usually bring me an overabundance of inspiration and words).
Today I got it.
Sure, I celebrated and enjoyed my first Mother’s Day, and I’m tearfully and overwhelmingly thankful that I have Silas, that he’s the little man who made me a mama. My life is what it is because of him.
But there are many who aren’t who want to be mothers so badly. For them, Mother’s Day must feel like hell. To have the thing that they want with their entire body and soul kept from them—and then flaunted in commercials, Facebook posts, greeting cards, storefronts…blog posts.
It gives me pause. On one hand, it helps me celebrate in a deeper, more reverent way the utter inexplicable gift of my son.
And on the other, it helps me remember those that I love—the ones I pray for and hurt with as they continue on their journeys to becoming parents.
I have questions that this side of existence will never answer, but I ask them anyway: why can some people have sex one time and get pregnant and regret it while others go through every medical procedure, every needle prick and blood test and waiting period they can afford and still NOT have a baby? How can some people welcome a baby who lives 11 days…and then is gone?
For these people, Mother’s Day is one of weight, of blankness, of waiting, and listening, and—how I wish I could change this—hurt.
And I guess to you all carrying that burden, I feel it. And I send you love and peace.