Mother’s Day Sucks.
This is what’s been going through my mind for the last week. What’s the point in the day when my kids won’t even be with me? It’s their weekend with their father. What’s the point when they don’t even realize it’s Mother’s Day? They’re too young to know. What’s the point when it’s me all the time? Celebrating the day would be having the day alone.
These are the thoughts that were going through my mind. The thoughts that were making me sad, grouchy and if I’m honest, slightly bitter. This was running through my mind as I was buying diapers at Wal-Mart until it dawned on me: Mother’s Day isn’t for me. It’s not about me being recognized, me being celebrated and appreciated. It’s about my kids. Not because they made me a mother- I’m pretty sure that was a combination of God and the miracle that is the epidural. But rather, it’s a day for them to stop and realize and recognize me and all I do for them. It’s a subtle difference with huge implications. As a mother, anything for my kids I will do even when I won’t do it for myself. Celebrating Mother’s Day is just that. This morning, in an impromptu morning cuddle, my kids suddenly disappeared from the room. After some whispering and rumblings, they walked back in with this tray. This is what it’s about I thought: high carb cereal and processed pancakes drowned in syrup. That and my children having a moment to celebrate their mom, in the simplest and purest of gestures offering me their unconditional love and adoration.
Before you sigh and say that’s so sweet and paint the scene with rose coloured glasses…after hugs and kisses and ‘I love you’s’ the kids leave my room to get dressed for school and I hear
“Stop it! You’re so stupid!”
“Mama, mama, mama, mama he hurt me!” “Mama, what are we having for supper?”
And I come downstairs and my kitchen looks like the after math of the apocalypse.
We are normal. We are flawed. But damn…we are loved.