My Mother’s Day Wish for You

The last time I saw my Mom was on Mother’s Day.

I snuck into the hospital in the wee hours of the morning to wish her a happy Mother’s Day and say goodbye before I headed back to Pennsylvania to celebrate with my own kids.

I knew she was sick, of course. That’s why I was making biweekly trips back home. It’s tough when your Mom has cancer and lives 400 miles away and you have three young kids to raise. When I arrived for what turned out to be our final visit I was shocked at how much she had deteriorated in just a week’s time.

When we were alone, we talked at length about her wishes. Although her diagnosis had only been a few months earlier, the chemo wasn’t working. Actually, it was doing quite the opposite–it was killing her. She didn’t want to live like that anymore.

I was heartbroken and devastated. But I didn’t blame her. So when I visited her that Mother’s Day, I wasn’t naive or in denial. I knew it was almost time to say goodbye. The operative word being “almost”.

I slipped in through the emergency room doors before visiting hours on my way out of town. I brought her a balloon and a cup of coffee I knew she wouldn’t drink. We whispered stories and shared our final secret. I told my dad I was going straight home. He was so worried about me getting there in time for dinner with my kids. I made her promise not to tell him and I saw a glimmer in her eye. We always were good at keeping things from Dad.

I had no idea that in two week she’d be gone. If I had known it was the last time I’d ever see her–her beautiful smile, her warm hazel eyes–or hear her voice or feel her warm, soft hand in my own, I’d have stayed longer.

I would have read her another story. Shared another memory. Flipped through so more photo albums. Squeezed her hand so much tighter. Tried harder to get her to take one sip of that coffee, chocolate raspberry from Quick Check.

I may have never left.

But I thought I had a little bit more time.

Time to run back home and be with my children on Mother’s Day. Time to make arrangements there, so I could be with her at the end. Time to accept the idea of living in a world without my mom, my North Star, my guiding light.

But death is sneaky like that. And before the month was out, I found myself the matriarch of our family.

Mother’s Day without Your Mom

Since then, Mother’s Day has never been the same. Even though I’ve been a mother myself for two decades, to me Mother’s Day has always been and will always be about my Mom. And without her, it’s hard to see the point.

I know I’m not unique. The dead mom club has a lot of members.

Your mom doesn’t even have to be dead for you to be missing her. Sadly, not everyone has a relationship with their mom.

But one thing we all share, one piece of common ground, is that we all have a mother. Or at least we did, at some point. We all come from somewhere. And whether you were lucky enough to be raised by an amazing woman and maybe even still have her in your life, or you never knew the woman who brought you into this world, there is always going to be that longing for home.

How I wish my mom were here to offer me her standard no-nonsense advice when I’m struggling. Or to beam with pride at my children’s accomplishments. It hurts my heart that she never got to see them grow up. That she wasn’t here to witness my daughter’s junior prom and she won’t see my son receive his college diploma in just a few short weeks. She was such a proud grandma.

Although, to be honest, I’m not sure who I’m sadder for. Her, because she’s missing these amazing milestones. Or me, became I have to figure out how to get through them without her. And milestones are tough for a mother.

If you are missing your mom today, you are not alone. My wish for you is peace.

Mother’s Day as a Child

I remember how jealous I was of Mother’s Day when I was a kid. Each spring, we’d shower Mom and then Dad with gifts. I always asked, “Why isn’t there a children’s day?”

I’m sure you know the answer. It was always the same. “Every day is children’s day.”

As a parent, I now understand the sentiment. But as a ten-year-old with a birthday just one week after Christmas, boy did I wish for a spring or summer holiday. I’d roll my eyes and wait anxiously for the day when I, too, would be celebrated on Mother’s Day.

I got my wish. I am lucky enough to have three amazing kids here with me on Earth. They are amazing. They are kind, funny, hardworking, helpful [at least sometimes], and they make me feel loved every day. But I also have two angels in heaven. Babies I had to leave behind when I left the hospital. Babies I never got to bring home.

Mother’s Day has been bittersweet for me for many years. But I know there’s nothing unique about my situation.

Mother’s Day Without a Child

So many mothers have lost children. So many want-to-be mothers continue to yearn for a dream that may never be. Weathering the tidal wave of Mother’s Day images and emotions is almost unbearable when you are heart is broken.

I have a photo in my family room. It’s my husband and I, both looking so young and carefree, sitting atop a playground structure with our one-year-old son. It’s just a 4 x 6 snapshot in a simple Walmart frame, but that picture has traveled with me from house to house for the last nineteen years. It’s the last Mother’s Day that was truly happy.

As a new mom, I was basking in the glow of Mother’s Day. Plus, my Mom was in town, so I got to shower her with love. My family was whole. Grief had not yet come knocking on my door. I didn’t know the oppressive pain of losing a child, a pain tha so suffocating it almost feels like you are the one being buried under six feet of earth.

The following year, my daughter Charlie was stillborn at 31 weeks. That changed my world.

She was due just two days after Mother’s Day 2005.

When that Mother’s Day finally rolled around, I somehow extricated myself from y bed and put on a pair of jeans that was away too big. I sat on a hill in the brilliant sun. The sky was robin’s egg blue. The grass was thick and green and littered with dandelions. Those little pops of yellow making the world seem so happy, a complete juxtaposition fo the storm raging in my heart. I watched my two-year old son roll down the hill, squealing with delight.

I should have been happy. But the grief was still so new. I hadn’t yet figured out how to package it or compartmentalize it, even for a moment. It was all encompassing. I could hardly breathe. I watched the dusty dandelion seeds scatter in the wind and wished I could float away with them.

We welcomed a new baby the next year. And then suffered another tragic loss when Kasey was stillborn in 2008.

Most people say our story has a happy ending. We were blessed with a second rainbow baby a year later and my youngest son completed our family. But our family will never be complete. There will always be a Charlie and Kasey shaped hole in my heart. And not a Mother’s Day goes by when I don’t think of the children I didn’t get to know.

Mother’s Day is more of a reminder of what I have lost than what I hold dear.

If you are spending this Mother’s Day without a child, I see you. My wish for you is hope.

Mother’s Day with Growing Children

Finally, there’s one more thing that can make Mother’s Day tough, especially for us mid-life moms. And while it doesn’t carry the same weight as missing your mom or longing for your child, it is a very real pain nonetheless.

Motherhood id one long progression or letting go. Each year, I am one year closer to the empty nest. There’s something about holidays that makes the passage of time so pronounced.

This year, I’m still lucky enough to have two of my three kids home with me. But my oldest is at school in Florida. And while I am proud of him and so glad that he’s forging his own path, I hate that he’s not here today.

Soon, my daughter will leave the nest too. College brochures arrive daily and our vacation this summer is found one of college tours. My youngest starts high school in the fall. So I know I better not blink.

This stage of my life, the one I hold so dear, is fading fast. I am super proud of my kids, and excited for the futures. I raised them to dream big and be confident and experience the world. And I am so glad they are doing those things.

But on days like this I realize how quickly it is all going. And it makes me sad to know that soon they will all be gone.

And that makes me scared. For who will I be when I have no one to mother? So much of my identity is tied to being their mom. I don’t even know myself anymore. I never realized I’d be having an identity crisis in my fifties.

If you are struggling with your motherhood identify right now, I see you. I wish you love.

My Mother’s Day Wish for You

If it were up to me . . . we’d just skip this day altogether. But I know for my children, this day is about me. And I know that I am lucky to have three incredible kiddos who care enough to make it special. So I go along with al the plans and smile on the outside. The tears come later. Maybe at the cemetery or maybe just on my closet floor.

To everyone reading this today – to all the mothers, want-to-be mothers, step-mothers, grandmothers, aunts, godmothers, friends who feel like mothers, children longing for their mothers, and everyone else celebrating or not today, I see you and I celebrate you. Be gentle with yourself today. My wish for you is comfort.

Off we go!

PS: Like parenting article. Read about my early motherhood days here.

I have a confession to make. . . Mother’s Day is not my favorite day. Actually, I kind of hate it. Because Mother’s Day will always make me sad.

There are many reasons I struggle with this holiday. But I’ll start with the biggest. Even though I’ve been a mother myself for two decades now, Mother’s Day will always be about my mom.

And my mom is no longer with us.

The last time I ever saw her was on Mother’s Day.

I was visiting her in NJ. I knew she was fading. I knew she wouldn’t make it through the summer. But I didn’t know that my early morning visit that Mother’s Day wold be my last. The last time I saw her smile, her warm hazel eyes. The last time I felt her hand in mine.