I started a post on Mother’s day but never did get around to finishing it. I just couldn’t get the words to come together in a way that I liked. That happens to me a lot, I grab an idea at the corner of my mind, a fragment of an idea and can’t get it to go further. And let’s face it, a fragment is not a good story or great reading material.
The thing is, on Mother’s Day I didn’t just enjoy the day. I remembered all the years I’d hide. I wouldn’t let anyone see me cry, see that it hurt like hell to be the women who didn’t get wished a happy Mother’s Day. The wife who couldn’t get the free breakfast sandwich at McDonald’s. The lady walking into church with no flower.
Each year the litany of words cheering mothers, their strength, their leadership, their ability to shape the future, bit into my heart silently.
And this year I hurt for dear friends, women who I know and those I don’t, who’s arms were empty again this Mother’s Day. Some women never carried a baby, others gave birth to their child who’d never take a breath. Still others saw their babies eyes open the first time, then close their last. Other mother’s gave their babies to family’s who were not able to give birth on their own.
As I watched Kyle this last Mother’s Day, his serious face studying the grass, what grandpa was doing and what his cousin Lexi was trying to show him, my heart ached again.
So to all my dear friends, mothers who’s babies no longer cry and mother’s who gave their babies to others, mother’s who mother all children, Happy Mother’s Day.