Possible Mother's Day missives from the deadone:
Geez, mom, would it kill you to do a few situps?
How come Bella's tree is bigger than MY tree?
Could you move my ashes out of that faux Tuscan thing you have me in, into something more meaningful (I mean really! Some depression glass kitsch from G'ma's would be more appropriate, no?), and then slide me out a bit on the shelf so I can see the television. Let her watch Spongebob more often -- dude cracks me up.
If dad's gonna use that room as an office, tell him to paint, please. But putting the rowing machine in there? Sweet.
You know, 2.5 years between kids is a death-knell (bwah! I slay me! HEE! there I go again!) anyway -- we woulda been at it like cats and dogs.
Mom. You know that puzzle of Bella's -- it's a cow or something, and she's so effin' smart (hmph, she wishes) she puts it together without the picture reference, and it's wood and ergo Buddy ate a piece of it? And then she moped for days every time she saw the puzzle and refused to play with it because Buddy ate a piece. And then she finally tried to do it again, but because it was missing a piece, she kept trying to jam something else in that looked like it might fit and getting frustrated? And finally, one day she just made the puzzle, pointed to the empty gap and said "Buddy ate that piece." And now she makes it all the time, always ending satisfactorily, "Buddy ate that piece."
Do you see, mom? When it comes to me, I'm fine with you just missing.
Mother's Day seems to me one of those holidays, much like Valentine's, where someone originally thought "how lovely! How could this holiday possibly be a bad thing? Celebrating mom! Celebrating love! I mean, everybody's got a mother!" And then advertising and popular culture (term used extremely loosely) ratcheted up the expectations. And now, sadly much like Christmas, these holidays are all about how much, how unique, how original, and BLING. (Good Lord, do the people at DeBeers ever rest? Is this a good time to show off my Earth Day diamond stud earrings?) There's now a shitload of pressure on lovers/spouses/children to do something grand and wonderful and monetarily enormous every year. To outdo the last. I have a feeling even the best of moms in the best of situations often feel a little let down come 8:00 p.m. on Sunday when they think, "that's it? that's the thanks I get for being a mom?"
But we're not exactly the best of situations here, are we. I have a number of friends who lost their mothers, some quite early in their lives, some quite recently, and I think about how this day must feel empty to them. That they stare at the cards, wondering if they sent enough, expressed enough, cared enough when mom was here. There's no one to take out to brunch, just a Sunday with a lot of heart and open arms and no where to go with it.
And then there's infertility. I spent three mother's days wondering if I would ever be a mom, and I know there are people out there who have spent far more, and some who are realizing they will never be. This holiday felt like a slap in the face. A cold glass of water illuminating what "normal" people are like, and what I must be. What life should be like in a television program or advertisement, and sadly what it is. A holiday that excludes, not includes. It's not like St. Patrick's where you can, in your Lebanese/French descent put on a plastic green hat, pick up a beer, and party with the rest of them if you so choose.
And finally, there's us. Those who are moms to children who will never be able to make a card, who will never utter the words "I love you," who never opened their eyes to see us. In all probability Maddy never felt me or heard me either. There will never be thanks for my nine months of carrying her, my labor, my sleepless week, the decisions I made, the time I spent. I will never be appreciated by her for the time I gave her, in my mind and heart because I couldn't drive her, tuck her in, hold her after she fell, pack her lunch, and respond "I love you, too." Neither of us were given that opportunity.
There is only this, the missing. And I'm going to try, instead of being bitter and angry and excluded, to put on blinders, (perhaps fortified with a shot of bourbon,) work in my yard, and just miss.