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I’m glad it’s over.

It wasn’t feeling right to me, as I watched the blocks of time tick by on the calender, leading up to the marked day of honour and celebration, as though it were a looming day of reckoning.   When I was a child the holiday held magic for me, and maybe for my mother, too.  As I aged and matured, and grew more cynical, it seemed nothing more than another way and another designated day  for Hallmark and other merchandise peddlers to profit.  Sell us an idea, and sell us the means and ways in which to fulfill our imposed obligations.

As a mother,  I began to think  how every day, and ever breath, is a gift.  There’s been a whole bunch of events in between, too, which have brought me to this position and place of gratitude.  Every day is mother’s day.  But, what about the women who don’t have children?  What about the women who can’t have children?  What about the women who have lost children?  And, what about the women who,  for whatever reasons, are estranged from their children?  And the women who have lost their mothers?  I’m sure even more variations of loss,  grief, and guilt, can be added to this list.

I’m an expert re-framer who is intensely aware of almost every thought popping into and out of her head.  With due diligence paid to the lagging, nagging, thoughts and memories.  The ones that take-up residence.  The squatters and homesteaders which evoke the strongest feelings and emotion.  So, it wasn’t without careful introspection that I decided to write about exactly how I feel, and felt, this Mother’s Day.

Mom and me, June 2012

My own mother had gotten on a plane too soon, and  just the week before, to return to Florida.  Leaving me as the petulant child, behind.  I made the obligatory call,  in the morning, to wish her a ‘happy’ Mother’s day.  But by evening, she had called me, in tears.  She wasn’t alone, and had spent the afternoon with close family friends.  But I’m sure the day added-up, and left her feeling vacant.  We didn’t discuss the cumulative reasons which brought her to tears.  We didn’t need to.

Aunt Donna, Jordan & Michelle, and me.

I’d been missing my own two older children who still live in Florida.  I didn’t expect to hear from my eldest daughter, because it’s my understanding that rehabilitation centers do not allow phone calls within the first week or two of admission, maybe longer, in some cases.

Kevin and his youngest sister.

I awoke yesterday morning unceremoniously,  as usual,  and got out of bed before my daughter and husband.  I don’t know what made me do it, but I went directly to the front window to check the steps outside the door.  I knew better, but was hopeful, thinking maybe I’d be surprised by a last minute gift of flowers or a plant, sent from my son.  Apparently, I have taught him well.  How we do not need specially designated days, ordained by marketing, to tell us when and what to celebrate.  Every day above ground is a celebration, an honour, and a privilege, which requires no flowery cards or candies.  Success!  There were no flowers.

And then,  I began to think about the loaded set-up of expectations and disappointment this single “holiday” conspires.  Tomorrow when I call my mother the way I usually do, I will say, “Happy Tuesday, Mom! I love you.  And, thank you.”

The double-edged irony was that my eldest daughter did call,  later on that evening, as did my son.  And,  she was calling from home.  The day was not a total drag-and-a-half,  as I received the most thoughtful gifts, and reverence,  from my husband and youngest daughter.  The weather was spectacular, and we had a veritable grilled feast, at my favourite location:  in our backyard.

The weekend also allowed me the opportunity to go through photos.  Photos which I think define me visually, as the mother who I think I am.  Of how I’d like to be thought of, by my children.

Mom, Kevin, me, Damien. Mini family reunion.

One day, I might be with all three of my children,  at the same place and time.  And THAT will scare the shit out of me, because I’ll think my end is near.  Humour… ya gotta have it!

Little One, feeling puny.

And, wearing pajama pants my eldest, Michelle, gave me for a birthday present…. a long time ago, it seems.

Unhand me, oh great kissing monster!

Oh glorious Spring!

One of mom’s favourite places. Blast it, she’s kissing me again!

The look of Love.

This blog post dedicated to Atreyu.  For the love, and that extra special swift kick in the writer’s ass.