As I sit here and watch the overly stacked celebrities prance throughout the movie Valentine’s Day, I have always been fascinated by the concept of an anti-love dinner party. It brings to light the idea that Valentine’s Day- a day ( months, really) dedicated to canoodling couples, can be quite challenging to many. My thoughts then went to the upcoming Mother’s Day. In lieu of this on-screen rebel party, may there be dinners and coffee dates dedicated to those who are not Mothers? If not, there should be.
This role or vocation, as a Mother, is TOUGH. There is no doubt about it… In fact, I stumbled upon a few images that summarize quite well.
While the reality of Motherhood is apparent, my heart has been with those who do not and will not celebrate this day.
My mind wanders to those who fear this day, and everything it stands for.
Who, you ask?
Let us consider the woman who has lost her own Mother, somewhere along the way. Maybe as a child, or a teenager, or even more recently. The woman who didn’t get to share her wedding day, can’t get that advice after a silly fight, or ever feel the warmth of a Mother’s arms again.
How about the woman who has lost a child… maybe the child was a baby, in-utero even. Perhaps this woman had already planned a nursery, picked out a name, and planned how life would never be the same.
Or the woman who lost a child, but after the bonds of motherhood were set in. She held this child, sung to him, bathed him, clothed him. Sent him off to Kindergarten with a tearful smile, kissed his boo-boos and prayed over him each night …
May we stop and consider the woman who is possibly suffering in silence, who dreads this day more than the rest. She, unable to ever conceive, holds her belly close as those around her celebrate births and babies. To her, this day is a reminder of what she cannot have.
I sat in bed last night, and thought about this post.
My thoughts ran to the day I watched in horror as the news unfolded in Sandy Hook. That night, my baby Mattie, like clock-work, startled me with her crazy screaming and fussing. I laid there, half asleep, feeling annoyed. Then it hit me. I tore off my sheets, and ran frantically into the nursery. I scooped her up and I held her. I held her closer than I have ever held a child before in my life. And I cried. And cried. And cried.
I held her for all those Mothers who would never hold their children again. How they would do anything to hear one last cry or even a scream- or be woken up in the middle of the night because their child needed just one more hug, one more kiss, one more story. For them, there would never be one more of any of those things.
I write this not to take away from the joy of Mother’s Day.
I promise you that.
I do write because I care.
I care deeply for those who on these days are in the trenches, trying to keep their head above the water. It might be the working Mother of 3, who hasn’t seen her children in days and can’t seem to muster up enough energy to keep her marriage alive. It could be the woman, who recently lost a child, and walking into every store this weekend opens up wounds that have just started to heal. Or it may be the woman in the Starbucks, who seems disgruntled and crass, but there is more to her story…
So I challenge my readers- on the Day of Mothers- may it be a day to spread Love. Love that has been given to us by our own Mothers- past or present. Give to the ones closest to you, and then possibly to a distant friend, a neighbor, or even a complete stranger. Imagine the possibilities…
I miss you, Jane.