Annual Mother's Day Meltdown

My annual mother’s day meltdown came right on time this year. It came out of the blue, just minutes after ending a fun and productive day at work, laughing with coworkers and mentally shifting from work mode to home mode. And out of nowhere, I felt the tears. I’m not sure if it was a Mother’s Day commercial, or maybe the guy in a gray van selling overpriced roses on the side of the road. But the tears came, and then before I knew it, I was bawling.

It never happens on Mother’s Day, because I’m too busy loving my boy and enjoying the day that I don’t have time to be sad. But the days before, like this particular day, when I should be buying my mom a gift, when I should be planning a visit to her house, when I should be stopping at Walgreens on the way over to pick up a card,  I wasn’t. When I should be calling her and wishing her a very happy Mother’s Day and taking time to tell her how much I appreciate her (even more so now that I’m a mom) I couldn’t. Because she’s gone, and every Mother’s Day is another reminder of that.

They say time heals all wounds, but I think, for the most part, time helps all wounds. I don’t think you ever actually heal from losing your mom. She’s your mom.   And now, as I navigate this motherhood thing on my own, sometimes the thought of losing her hurts more now than it did before. Now, when I remember the last thing she said to me, “I love you more than I love myself” I actually get it. I understand now why she wasn’t scared for her, she was sad for me. She knew she was going and how hard it would be for me, and that broke her heart more than the thought of losing her own life did. And I didn’t really get that then, but I get it now. I understand that her sadness was not for herself, but for me and the little bitty baby I was going to raise without her by my side.

Being a mom without a mom is a hard thing to do. It’s hard during the rough times, but it’s worse during the good times. When I want to call her to brag about a new word he said, a funny question he asked, an amazing feat he accomplished, I can’t. When I want to ask her weird questions like “why does he have his hands in his pants ALL. THE. TIME?” or “is it normal for me to want to drop him off at the fire station?!” or, most recently “am I really going to love this new baby as much as I love my first?” She would know what to say, and I would trust her, and she’s not here to offer it.

Last time I was pregnant, I sat across from her in a hospital room as she endured her chemo, and I rubbed my belly and soaked in all of the advice and excitement she had to offer about having a baby, and about having a son. I listened intently as she talked about how much she loved being a mom, and was impressed at how clearly she could remember the tiniest details of our childhood. And now I get it. I get why the chemo and the needles and the thowing up and the cancer seemed to disappear when she talked about being a mom; it was because it was who she was and who she was made to be, and it was her most prized accomplishment. I didn’t get that then, but I get it now.

And as Mother’s Day rolls around, I understand that it isn’t about the last minute run to Walgreens for a $4.99 card that matters. It’s not the scented candle or the flowers that make Mother’s Day special. As a mom, it’s about spending quality time with the people who you love more than you love yourself.

A little part of me is thankful for my annual Mother’s Day meltdown. It is a good way for me to grieve what was, and be thankful for what is. I won’t buy a  Mother’s Day gift again, or call her to wish her a Happy Mother’s Day, and that is heartbreaking. But the joy I have in being a mom, in applying the lessons and wisdom she instilled in me, in the gradual understanding of what it means to love someone unconditionally, my heart is completely full.

She wouldn’t want me to spend Mother’s Day boo-hoo crying and being miserable. She’d want me to finish my meltdown, pick up my boy, and experience the unspeakable bond between a mother and her child, and allow it to make me as happy as it made her.

So that’s what I’ll do. Every year, for the rest of my life.