Mother’s day is here. Again. For the 18th time. And, again, I don’t know how I feel. Like birthdays and anniversaries, I now sometimes forget that these days mean something. Meant something. Are supposed to mean something. It’s a confusing basket of sadness and anger and longing and resentment and idealization and fantasy. And, it’s just a day. Just like every other day that hasn’t been ok because someone you need isn’t here anymore. So many people you need aren’t here anymore. It’s so much and so nothing at the same time. The sun continues to rise, the gossip continues to matter, the mundane marches on. Does the day mean something because it actually does, or because I’m told that it means something? That it’s a day to wallow and remember and display the emotion that’s been present/neglected/dormant/healed for 18 years? This is the acceptable time to weep, even long after your healing should have taken place. For what purpose? What is the difference between ritual and pandering? Honoring and relishing?
And, what does it mean that I am not a mother? Is this the wise, responsible, intellectual decision that I tell myself it is? Or, is this a fear-based choice? Is it predicated on remembering the mother-child relationship, and what it means, and how much it can hurt when it is taken away? To step out onto the ledge and risk the fear and uncertainty and pain that may follow…just because the experience may be so wondrous and beautiful. Surely no rational person would ever do this. Nobody with any sense would invite themselves to feel so strongly about another person, knowing that they will inevitably watch that person endure hardship, pain, loss. And knowing that they will be unable to fix it, and will have to watch helplessly as someone they long to protect feels pain. It is a venture in foolishness. It is the triumph of hope over experience. And, apparently (from what my breeder-friends tell me), it is worth it.