'Twas the Night before Mothering Sunday

It is not always an easy day, Mothers' Day. I have had my share of tricky ones. Before I had children, when I so desperately wanted them, I used to think that once I had them, all Mothers' Days would be wonderful. I would watch with envious eyes as toddlers thrust handfuls of daffodils at their smiling mothers, and inside my heart would break. I could not comprehend the pain that having children can bring. I am not undermining that pain. Nor am I suggesting that it is in any way less than the pain I have subsequently experienced. It is just different.

I would never want to return to those days, and when I recognise that longing in another woman's eyes, I ache inside, wishing I could soothe and comfort but knowing I cannot. I represent an endgame in the infertility world. The barren woman. No fruit springs forth from my loins and never shall. As such, I am not often welcome in the midst of grappling with such traumas.

And yet I am a mother:

Not flesh of my flesh,
Not bone of my bone,
But still miraculously my own.
Never forget,
For a single minute,
You didn't grow under my heart but in it.

So are my Mothers' Days a source of constant delight and joy to me now? The best answer I can give to that is, it's complicated. There have been times I have cried harder than before. Times I would rather Mothers' Day did not exist. But there has been joy too. Today hope flickered in me as I heard from another mothers' grown up child. As this young woman chatted on the phone, I recognised adult responsibility and care in her voice. And I am so very grateful.

Tomorrow we have a family lunch planned. I shall hold onto my hope and remember my joy.