Battling Mother's Day

I had a bit of a meltdown in Hallmark today. I was trying to choose an appropriate Mother's Day card, an arduous task in and of itself and one at which I think I have historically failed. It looked like this year would be no different. The sentimental cards were too sentimental, the funny cards too geared toward a parent with children still at home, the music-playing cards too obnoxious. The cards I enjoyed the most, with appealing artwork and just the right blend of sentiment and humor, were the ones in the section I soon realized was called "Now That I'm a Mother." Needless to say, cute as these cards were, none of them applied. And that's when the meltdown began.

It seems reasonable to expect that at this point in my life -- I turn 36 next month -- the "now that I'm a mother" section is where I should/could be shopping. As I stood there, card in hand, with the "First Mother's Day" cards in my line of sight, I remembered having this same feeling last year and the year before and the year before that and... That pang of grief, followed by a hopeful "someday", followed by an ever less hopeful, "but when?" I walked out of the mall, past the booths for personalized jewelry and ten minute massages, with tears welling up in my eyes. I got to the car before they started to fall.

Childlessness, for those who desire to have children, is a source of grief; though it is mostly a silent grief. Couples who struggle with infertility live with an unseen monthly cycle of unmet hopes. Those who experience miscarriage grieve the loss of a child who was already part of them and of their family, yet about whom maybe very few people even knew. And even single people who are not actively trying to have children can grieve the child they do not have. Some folks might see a single woman without children and assume this is a choice; and perhaps even judge her for it. But this was not my choice. Others might put on their happiest, most feminist smile and say, "Oh, you're not that old; people have children in their 40s." Or "You can still have children; just go to the sperm bank", or "Having kids isn't always all it's cracked up to be, you know". Yet most of the people who say these helpful-meaning things (and they are sometimes helpful) are parents. With partners (and, yes, I know, I know, THEY aren't always all they're cracked up to be, either).

I want to be a mother. But I don't want to do it alone. I want to stop looking in on motherhood as an outsider. I want to be part of nurturing another human being into growth and into life. It may yet happen. It may not. But today I walked out of the mall crying.

I know, of course, that Mother's Day, at its core, is not meant to be about me. It is a day to celebrate the woman who raised and tended me. I did manage to choose a card. And on Sunday I will go to my mom's house, give her a hug and a smooch, join my sister out in the yard to plant mom's flowers and tomatoes and celebrate our mother. I will say a prayer of thanks for my mom; I will pray for all my friends who are mothers; I will pray for mothers around the world who defy impossible odds to care for and tend their children. I will pray for those who did not want to be mothers, but are. And I will pray for those who desire to be mothers (and fathers) and are not.

I'm not sure why I am writing all this. Perhaps to give you a glimpse into me. Perhaps to remind myself and all of us of a truth my friend over at A Work in Progress often quotes: "Be kind, because everyone you come across is fighting a great battle." My guess is that's especially true on Mother's Day.