In the weeks before Mother’s Day, I had planned to write a glorious and glowing post about motherhood. I felt sure that words would emerge and my story would unfold. Yet, I sat for hours; the heat of my laptop warming my thighs as my fingers clicked away, typing words that just didn’t belong to me. I struggled to express what I felt in my heart. Too melancholy for a celebratory post I put my laptop away for a few days.
Instead, I focused on my Sunday before Mother’s Day ritual, handpicking cards and writing personal notes to my girlfriends, sisters and aunts. Since my mom’s passing, I have honored her by celebrating the amazing moms I know and admire. As I dropped my stack of cards into the mailbox, I smiled thinking about each one of them opening my small gift and smiling too.
With Mother’s Day nearing, I took another crack at my blog, but still nothing. Feeling anxious, annoyed, and uninspired, I closed my laptop once again. I texted my kids . . . Mother’s Day breakfast at my house. No gifts please. Your presence is my present. Love you. Xoxo. Both replied with Sounds great. I was happy with this simple plan and decided that I would give up on writing until after Mother’s Day.
Sunday morning arrived. I woke up much too early and began to peruse Facebook, so many touching and beautiful tributes to moms, a great start to my day. I added my own acknowledgement, along with a photograph, and I was filled with pride and gratitude, this amazing woman was my mom.
I climbed out of bed and got busy in the kitchen; the smell of bacon filled the house. My daughter and grandson are the first to arrive. Luca wants bacon and so it begins. My son is his usual late self, but I don’t care. I am happy we are together. We eat, we talk, and we laugh as Luca entertains us. We even cry a little. It’s been a rough couple of months for my kids, each of them facing personal challenges. It’s not good or bad, but sad and very difficult. All I can do is watch and listen. Instinctively, I want to interfere, give advice, right the wrongs, save them from hurt and heartache, but these are not my lessons to learn.
Maybe Mother’s Day was difficult to write about because I didn’t feel like a good mom, certainly not qualified to write about motherhood. I felt as though I had failed. In my heart, of course I know that is not true. I did my best, I still do. But, when my kids have heartache, my heart aches. When they’re sad, I’m sad, and somehow I feel responsible for that pain. I want to kiss it, put a Band-Aid on it, and send them out to play again.
Lying in bed last night, I thought a lot about our time together. It was a good day, a really good day. We hugged and kissed and said I love you. In spite of the challenges before us, we celebrated our lives, our little family. Without expressing it with words, we understood that we have each other, and it’s all going to be okay. My kids have seen me rise from the ashes time and time again. I have shown them by example that no matter how bad things seem, there are brighter days ahead, and life goes on.
As much I want to interfere, to make it right, or save the day . . . I cannot . . . I’m a good mom, and good moms let their children grow, even when it hurts.