Mama's Day Musings

While I listened to talk radio recently, an author reflected upon the memoir she published about her journey with weight loss.  The particular details of the interview did not stay with me. What stood out most was how she came to accept the need to stop dragging her feet and put her experience in print so that others might hear her story.  In essence, the sheer angst and dawdling procrastination about how hard it felt to do the work ended up being her chief motivator.  She had to move past her tormented idling and get on with it.  And so she did.

What she knew to be true is that she didn’t have all the answers, that her journey, forever a work-in-progress, is hers and hers alone, and only serves as a potential narrative from which others might find a connection, perhaps solace, or a mirror from which their own unique experiences may reflect. Or, at the very least, the telling of her story would be a brave and deeply personal mission from which she could continue to find her way in the world with strength, dignity, humor and meaning.

It is in this spirit that I too find the motivation to write today.  Here goes.

Anyone who knows me also understands that I was not able to realize the dream of becoming a mother.  Though Bob and I made every attempt, meandering through many years of trying, it was not meant to be. Thankfully, we are no longer living in those intensely painful years of repeated losses as our dreamed about family slipped out of reach.  We remain a family of two, for which I am grateful, but it has changed the landscape of our lives forever. Someone will always be missing.

Year after year I’ve grappled with a patchwork of feelings around this full-on, in-your-face “holiday” called Mother’s Day.  Between my inbox and social media a complete frenzy gains momentum in the days running up to today, with innumerable ways to celebrate, buy for, spend time with, honor, dine with and exercise with one’s mama.  The day itself is laden with endless photos, memes, remembrances and congratulatory high fives. It’s important to take it in stride and see it for what it is, but for those of us who live in a cloak of invisibility when it comes to parenthood, this day (among many others) can be a test of spirit.  

Over the years I’ve experienced feelings of so many designs that made it nearly impossible to make sense of them in a way that felt voiceable to others.  It’s always felt so hard to express what resides in my head and heart without risking sounding sour or ungrateful or, quite simply, pitiful, when I know I’m not any of those things.  But the days (really weeks) leading up to this largely Hallmark-driven day of honor has always poked at my heartstrings no matter how hard I’ve wished to face it with a casual disregard as if it shouldn’t matter at all.  

Each year I stumble upon an author or two who sympathetically and in good faith take a stab at keeping it real, knowing full well that Mother’s Day is not all that it’s cracked up to be and many women, mothers and non-mothers alike, for a variety of reasons share this collective agreement.  Lots of people see it for what it is -- largely commercially driven (apparently it's a 23 billion dollar industry) and socially endorsed in a peer pressured kind of way. Yet it remains ubiquitous and emotionally loaded on so many levels.

In the early years of trying, and then during the slow, bleary-eyed crawl to some form of acceptance, I always felt a bit dumbfounded.  I knew then, and I know now, that parenthood is crazy-hard work, not at all glamorous, and definitely not for the faint of heart. It demands a level of messy perseverance and vigilance that seems to require superhuman fortitude and is downright harrowing many days. That said, most parents I know wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

For me, experiencing pregnancy itself, with all its highs and lows (or so I’ve heard), is only one small loss of many.  I was never particularly hung up on the pregnancy thing or bringing our little bundle home wrapped in the pink and blue blanket.  

Instead, what echoed most in my heart was the loss of every little-big thing. It was never about the baby shower, but rather the countless little milestones we would never experience as a family  - the first smile or steps on newly found legs, waiting together at the bus stop on the first day of kindergarten with tears or perhaps no tears at all, temper tantrums and quirky personality expressions that needed their own space and time to sort out, parent night at school, leaving notes and cookies for Santa and footie pajamas descending the stairs Christmas morning as we all came down in a blur of excitement and sleep-deprivation, making memories with siblings and extended family… cousins, aunties, uncles and grandparents, sports or music or dance or outdoor adventures, that dreaded homework, proms and college tours, graduations, weddings if they were to choose, teaching them about our passions and watching them develop joys of their own, and perhaps one day the gift of grandchildren, and well, a million other things.  The good and bad, beautiful and ugly, heart-filling and heartbreaking. All of it. We wished for all of it.

One of the reasons I’ve resisted putting pen to paper about this over the years is because of the well-meaning but often diminishing, dismissive comments I’ve received.  I get it. We often don’t know what to say to others when faced with a loss or challenge so different from our own. Over the years I’ve heard lots of things  - - Oh, count yourself lucky you don’t have to deal with all the holy terror kid stuff.  You can have my kids anytime (nope, pretty sure you wouldn’t give them away).  It could be worse (maybe true, but ridiculously unhelpful and insensitive).  At least you have your dogs (said a women with two sons who I know for a fact wouldn’t trade them for two dogs any day of the week!).  Oh, you don’t have kids?  That’s ok (no, no it’s not) you’re a teacher, you have hundreds of kids (no, no I don’t).  I’m a mother and I don’t care about Mother’s Day (ok, I get that, but it’s so much bigger and more complex for us than that.)  And the best one of all -- in the years since Bob’s accident, which was less than a year after we put the kibosh on trying for a family, several people have told me it’s a good thing you don’t have kids because things would be so much harder and worse.  Really?  Unhelpful, thoughtless, hurtful, and well, ignorant.

Some people make the choice to remain child-free.  Others have it made for them. Those facing infertility are on a remote team all of their own, and of course no one wants to join.  Hell, we didn’t want to join the team! Women and their partners, and those going about it solo, who are on the infertility treadmill now are not finding joy in Mother’s Day or anything remotely related.  It is one of many painful reminders of what is wished for, what is still yet to be, and for some what will never come to pass. That said, we are not alone. Though our teams may take different forms, there are others who must take pause and steady themselves when the sadness finds them, as it most surely and inevitably does.

The list may be longer than some might think.  Mother’s Day (or Father’s Day for that matter… but that’s for another post) whether you embrace it or not, is hard for lots of people.  Dear friends and family of mine have faced miscarriage. Some have gone on to birth or adopt beautiful babies, others have not. Either way, the loss is still palpable and lasting.  

Folks might choose adoption, egg/sperm donation or surrogacy as a way to parenthood - great choices I might add - but even these routes are often steeped in careful, deeply personal grappling and the loss of a dream.  People who have been adopted themselves into loving (or not-so-loving) families, or found themselves in a foster care system, carry with them experiences that may be positive, or not, but potentially loaded with an array of mixed emotions.

There are families who have faced the inconceivable and agonizing death of a child for which this day and a multitude of others causes them to catch their breath and revisit their tremendous loss, reminded once again of someone who is forever missing.  

Others have lost children or mothers to estrangement, addiction, abuse, illness, circumstance or conflicts of all kinds that have yet to be resolved.   Some are simply living or working far away from home. Mother’s Day may be no less difficult for any of them.

Of course, if your own mom has passed, no matter the makeup of that relationship, it can be a heart-tugging reminder of what once was or could have been.  It is the missing, or regret, or strife (you name the feelings) that hits so very hard some days.

My heart goes out to all of these women and families on Mother’s Day and all the days in between.  I know. I know. There are lots of ways to “mother”. At this time of year, this notion is shouted out loud and clear.  Don’t get me wrong, I value my roles as a friend, a daughter, an auntie, a mom of four-leggeds, and a classroom teacher of little ones. But at the end of the day, I am part of a family of TWO, forever and always.  

Recently, Bob and I were walking along in the woods talking about all the different kinds of trees and the features by which each each one can be identified.  The conversation was light and easy and interesting until he said, “I always loved walking in the woods with my dad when I was a boy. I would ask him the names of every tree over and over again, and I would soak up all that he said like a sponge.”  My heart leapt up into my throat and I fought back the tears. If ever there was a man who had much to teach a son or daughter, it is this one, and my heart hurt. We will continue to find our way, we always do, and there are others who we will influence and love, but it was one of a million reminders of what was not meant for us.  Make no mistake, life is still good in so many ways and we are truly blessed beyond measure. But never will I be a mother in the truest sense, nor will Bob be a father. Ever.

No matter the vastly unique tapestry of beliefs, values, experiences and emotion that weave through all of our individual experiences, over time I've learned to take comfort in the truth that none of us need to feel alone.  I am grateful for the handful of friends or family members who reach out to me each year on this weekend. A long-time friend always sends me a “Happy friendship day” text for which I am always so appreciative. It’s simple, yet profound.  Another reaches out knowing that this can be a heart-heavy time for me and makes sure I feel her big-hearted love and compassion. Other "team members" gently make space for each other and our collective, hard-earned manner of coping and acceptance, which serves to remind us that not all is lost.

I suspect my feelings around this day, and others like it, will continue to ebb and flow as the years ramble along.  It certainly has gotten easier in many ways, and I can now find moments of lightness and humor in what used to bring so much sorrow.  Early this morning I found myself in a long line of fathers at a local bakery, toddlers and baby carriers in tow, as they ordered bagels and muffins for some version of breakfast in bed I suspect.  I had to laugh at the absurdity (and sweetness) of the whole thing. Hallmark clearly won this marketing campaign!

This is only one small part of the story.  Perhaps more will be written one day.  At the very least, I stopped dawdling and got to work on telling, at least in part, about what has been clattering around in my head for too long.  And just like the author on the radio, I don’t have all the answers; my journey, like all others, is a work-in-progress. But perhaps my words will allow others to find a connection or wee bits of solace, a new or broader awareness, or a mirror from which their own unique experiences might reflect, shine and be seen.

Peace.