"When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child." -Sophia Loren
"For when a child is born, the mother is also born again." -Gilbert Parker
These are flowers that I bought for myself, because I knew I would love some tulips. I was right.
Mother's Day makes me feel lonely.
Ever since my first official celebration in 1988, I've spent the day with a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, a bittersweet ache for something I can't quite explain or describe or put my finger on.
In the early years, I supposed that the disconnect was due to the fact of my little ones' age. They were so young, too young to understand the meaning of the day. Adorable little kittens, they purred and pounced and played at my feet every day and why should one Sunday in May be any different than all the rest?
My fourth-born knew I would love this bouquet of allium and eucalyptus. She was right.
As time went on, my relationship with my own mom puzzled me. Hard feelings that I didn't understand came between us, and I guessed that wedge was the source of my loneliness on Mother's Day.
Then she got sick. Lewy Body Dementia stole our peace and certainly the thirteen years that my mom fought a losing battle against that terrible disease would explain my Mother's Day melancholy.
But those years are over now.
This is the third Mother's Day since my own mother went to heaven. I'm glad her battle is won and more than ever, I am at peace with her passing.
My daughters are full-grown adults now, and surely they grasp the significance of the celebration.
Nonetheless, again on this Mother's Day, I feel lonely.
And my first-born baked me a cake, a one-layer affair with a moderate dollop of frosting.
She thought I would like it. And she too was right.
And I wonder today, as I realize that all my old theories have flown out the window, that maybe the reason I feel alone on Mother's Day is because I am alone on Mother's Day.
Oh, of course, my husband and a goodly percentage of my daughters are with me.
But they are not mothers.
Not yet, anyway. Hopefully that day will come.
In all the years that I have been celebrating Mother's Day, my family and I have never once spent the day with another mom.
Not my mom. Nor my mother-in-law.
No aunties or grandmothers.
No sisters or sisters-in-law.
No friends or neighbors or traveling salesladies.
I have always been the only mother at the party.
And there is something special
something extraordinary
something priceless
something profoundly and deeply moving
about motherhood
that only another mother can understand.
And because I never once have had another mother sit across the table from me on Mother's Day, a mom whose eyes might meet mine over our cheeseburgers, a mom with whom I could share a special, silent moment of knowing what an immensely mysterious and unspeakable thing it is to be a mother,
I think it is quite understandable
that I feel lonely on Mother's Day.
* * * * *
Here are more stories about mothers and Mother's Day
Looking Up: Mother's Day Edition
What Truly Matters About Moms
Dear Mormon Mom
My Mother-In-Law
* * * * *
And to read more stories about my mom's journey through Lewy Body Dementia, go here.
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