Mother’s Day has many connotations to me, some good and some not so good. I have been blessed with having two young women in my life who are my daughters of the heart.  I remain proud of both of them, proud to know them, to be part of their lives.  Additionally, the Goddess has blessed me with babies in my life, nieces I’ve raised, a whole new crop of “nieces” in Texas and co-workers with babies, neighbors with young girls.  But this day has and will ever remain a day that is bittersweet, and not one that I look forward to for the following reasons:

 

Firstly, my mother and I were never close, she was and remains ashamed of me (since I had the bad taste not to be born a classic blonde cheerleader type/mall queen like my sister) and while I have tried my best over the years to understand her and be more tolerant, I’ve also realized that she will never change and yes, I sent her a card.

 

Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, Mother’s Day always brings back home to me the following poem, which I wrote not long after the death of my unborn daughter.  I wonder where she’d be, if by now I’d be a grandmother, if she’d be happy, married, or what.  It has never stopped being a struggle on this day, as well as on the day which she was taken from me. 

 

This is not to say that there aren’t people out there who don’t call me mother behind my back, but that’s not to what I am referring.  So keep in mind when you casually wish some woman “Happy Mother’s Day” that perhaps it is a very painful reminder that she isn’t.  Just because a woman is over 50 does not automatically mean that she has born children, or that they are still living.  Your casual reminder can hurt more than most people will ever know. 

 

Babies