I’ve always had an “It’s Complicated” relationship with Mother’s Day. Moving states and switching schools in the middle of third grade after your parents get divorced and your dad becomes your custodial parent will do that to you. As millennial eldest daughter complexes go, mine is… robust.
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The first Mother’s Day I thought I was going to be a mom? I ended up spending it recovering from treatment for an ectopic pregnancy.
My first Mother’s Day after giving birth to my twin girls was spent in the NICU, hoping we’d finally get to bring them home after almost a month-long rollercoaster.
I had a lovely bouquet of flowers in my online cart when I got the message last month that my mom likely only had a few days to live. She loved flowers, and it was a safe gift for someone who once declined getting a pedicure with me, but said she would be willing to tag along and watch while I got one. (Thanks, but no thanks, Mom.)
Getting flowers also meant I got to avoid the landmines in the Mother’s Day greeting card aisle, because the people who write for Hallmark and I clearly have a very different lived experience.
Mom, you were always there for me.
Nope.
Mom, you’re my best friend.
Uh-uh.
To the best mom in the world.
…
There’s no Mother’s Day card on the shelf that says Mom, I know you played the crappy hand you were dealt, but I’m going all in with mine. It wouldn’t fit nicely on the front of an overpriced card anyway.
And yet, now that she’s gone, this Mother’s Day feels more fraught than ever.
On the one hand, I am grateful she doesn’t have to live with the illness that caused her body to rapidly deteriorate and steal the independence she was known for from her. On the other, I mourn the fact that I’ll never get another phone call from her again. Even if when she was alive, seeing her name on the screen of my phone filled me with a sense of anxiety I can’t begin to explain to friends whose moms routinely take their kids for the day, no questions asked.
Because for all her shortcomings, she’s still the mom who framed my Kindergarten hand prints and kept the wicker jewelry box I hot glued to oblivion for Mother’s Day as a kid, even if she never wore the jewelry I got her for Mother’s Day as an adult. She’s still the mom who sewed the giant bow on my first communion dress and helped lace up the corset back on my wedding dress. She’s the only mom I’ll ever have, and now she’s gone. And even though her death wasn’t sudden or shocking, it still feels strange to be living in a world she isn’t in anymore.
Mother’s Day will probably always come mixed with feelings of grief, even as my husband and children do their damndest to make my day special (and absolutely crush it). I’ll probably always cry any time I hear “In My Life” or “Carry That Weight” by The Beatles or play the same vinyl records she listened to when she was younger. When we inevitably make the time to go through my mom’s things, I’ll probably get choked up looking at all the photos of my mom and dad when they were young and happy, knowing my mom deserved so much better than the raw deal she got in her abbreviated life. I’ll have no idea what to do with all the Mother’s Day gifts from me and my siblings, which she kept for more than four decades, or the first communion dress with the giant bow. And then I’ll cry all over again.
Because although this may be my first Mother’s Day without my mom, it won’t be my last. And regardless of how strained our mother-daughter relationship was while she was alive, it’s going to sting a little every year.
Rest in peace, Mom. I hope you finally have it.
