Mother’s Day is Sunday.
For being a ridiculous, Hallmark holiday, it certainly pulls on the heartstrings of the world, yes? Joyous for those with fantastic moms; heartbreaking for those who have lost parents (or children); devastating for those who struggle to become mothers and can’t. It’s like this massive day created to tug at the edges of a hole that already exists in your heart. Like, I know it’s there…but you don’t have to yank on it once a year, do you?
I feel like this is a day that can be especially hard for those whose mothers have passed. I know about that firsthand. And of course, I take a moment and remember my mom on Mother’s Day. It would be silly to say that I don’t. It’s always been a day that’s tinged with just the littlest bit of sadness, and I think always will be, regardless of how wonderful my kids are, or how much I celebrate my other mom friends
Truthfully though, I’ve never taken a lot of stock in calendar-created “special days.” Because if you really think back to the super meaningful times of your life, I’m guessing that a good number of them didn’t necessarily revolve around a holiday. And if I’m honest, I don’t remember a single Mother’s Day with my mom. Not a one. I feel like the really profound moments with Mom happened on a random Tuesday, when I was otherwise engaged in the regular ol’ mundane tasks of life.
Driving to school today with my daughter was one of those moments. And it was stealth. And crushing.
“Mommy, I want to tell you a secret.”
“Ok. Lay it on me.”
“I love you.”
“Aw, well that’s nice. I love you, too.”
(Everything is still cool. Humming to radio. Avoiding traffic.)
“But I want to love you always.”
“Well, that’s very sweet, dear. You can love me for as long as you want. And I will love you forever as well.”
(Aww. How sweet. What a cute daughter she’s decided to be this morning. We need ice cream or something.)
“Mommy. Please don’t die.”
(SCREEEECHING HALT in brain. What did she just say? Oh my God. Is she worried about me dying? Where is this coming from? Wait, did I just drive past her school? Dammit. Around the block.)
Stumbling for words…“Honey…I mean. That’s not something to worry about. Not for a long time. And I will love you forever and ever, no matter what.”
“You mean you won’t ever leave me? You won’t die?”
(And now, I have tears streaming down my face. How do I explain life and death and love in the five minutes I have, in the car, around the block, so that I can make her feel ok, and still get her into the school building in one piece? Focus. Think. Stop crying.)
Deep breath.
“El. You know your Paw Patrol blanket?”
“Yeah, I sleep with it. It’s my favorite.”
“Right. And when you go to bed at night, you wrap yourself up in it, right?”
“Yes.”
“You wrap yourself up in it because it keeps you safe, and warm, and you feel cozy, and it lets you sleep with such sweet dreams, right?”
Smiling…to herself, “Yes.”
“And right now, you don’t have that blanket with you, but you remember that feeling, right? You know what it feels like to be safe and warm and cozy, in your bed at night?”
“Yup. I love my Paw Patrol blanket.”
(Deep breath as I try to explain the existential concepts of life and death and love to a four-and-a-half-year-old.)
“Well, Mommy’s love is kinda like your blanket. It will ALWAYS make you feel safe, and warm, and cozy and cared for EVEN if I’m not with you all the time. Like when you’re a school, you remember that I love you, just like you remember how warm your blanket is, right?”
She giggles… “Yes.”
“So you know, that no matter where I am or what I’m doing, or if I’m with you or not… JUST like your warm blanket, you can stop, and remember, and you can always *FEEL* my love, wrapped around you, keeping you safe and warm and happy. And that’s there forever. You can remember that anytime. No matter what.”
“Oh, ok.” She nods quietly, smiles, and looks out the window, lost in thought.
And then we pulled up in the drop off line, and the moment was gone. And she jumped out of the car, waved, and said goodbye, like a 4-year-old, without a care in the world; like we hadn’t just had the deepest and most profound conversation of her life thus far.
“Remember that I love you,” I yelled after her.
“I love you too, mommy.”
And off we went. On a random Friday.
I’m looking forward to Mother’s Day this year, as we’re hosting family in our new home. I’m positive that it will be lovely day. But odds are, my kids aren’t going to remember it. But maybe, just maybe, 50 years from now, on Mother’s Day, Ellie will smile to herself and remember that my love is like a Paw Patrol blanket, and will smile to herself, and hug her children close.
For being a ridiculous, Hallmark holiday, it certainly pulls on the heartstrings of the world, yes? Joyous for those with fantastic moms; heartbreaking for those who have lost parents (or children); devastating for those who struggle to become mothers and can’t. It’s like this massive day created to tug at the edges of a hole that already exists in your heart. Like, I know it’s there…but you don’t have to yank on it once a year, do you?
I feel like this is a day that can be especially hard for those whose mothers have passed. I know about that firsthand. And of course, I take a moment and remember my mom on Mother’s Day. It would be silly to say that I don’t. It’s always been a day that’s tinged with just the littlest bit of sadness, and I think always will be, regardless of how wonderful my kids are, or how much I celebrate my other mom friends
Truthfully though, I’ve never taken a lot of stock in calendar-created “special days.” Because if you really think back to the super meaningful times of your life, I’m guessing that a good number of them didn’t necessarily revolve around a holiday. And if I’m honest, I don’t remember a single Mother’s Day with my mom. Not a one. I feel like the really profound moments with Mom happened on a random Tuesday, when I was otherwise engaged in the regular ol’ mundane tasks of life.
Driving to school today with my daughter was one of those moments. And it was stealth. And crushing.
“Mommy, I want to tell you a secret.”
“Ok. Lay it on me.”
“I love you.”
“Aw, well that’s nice. I love you, too.”
(Everything is still cool. Humming to radio. Avoiding traffic.)
“But I want to love you always.”
“Well, that’s very sweet, dear. You can love me for as long as you want. And I will love you forever as well.”
(Aww. How sweet. What a cute daughter she’s decided to be this morning. We need ice cream or something.)
“Mommy. Please don’t die.”
(SCREEEECHING HALT in brain. What did she just say? Oh my God. Is she worried about me dying? Where is this coming from? Wait, did I just drive past her school? Dammit. Around the block.)
Stumbling for words…“Honey…I mean. That’s not something to worry about. Not for a long time. And I will love you forever and ever, no matter what.”
“You mean you won’t ever leave me? You won’t die?”
(And now, I have tears streaming down my face. How do I explain life and death and love in the five minutes I have, in the car, around the block, so that I can make her feel ok, and still get her into the school building in one piece? Focus. Think. Stop crying.)
Deep breath.
“El. You know your Paw Patrol blanket?”
“Yeah, I sleep with it. It’s my favorite.”
“Right. And when you go to bed at night, you wrap yourself up in it, right?”
“Yes.”
“You wrap yourself up in it because it keeps you safe, and warm, and you feel cozy, and it lets you sleep with such sweet dreams, right?”
Smiling…to herself, “Yes.”
“And right now, you don’t have that blanket with you, but you remember that feeling, right? You know what it feels like to be safe and warm and cozy, in your bed at night?”
“Yup. I love my Paw Patrol blanket.”
(Deep breath as I try to explain the existential concepts of life and death and love to a four-and-a-half-year-old.)
“Well, Mommy’s love is kinda like your blanket. It will ALWAYS make you feel safe, and warm, and cozy and cared for EVEN if I’m not with you all the time. Like when you’re a school, you remember that I love you, just like you remember how warm your blanket is, right?”
She giggles… “Yes.”
“So you know, that no matter where I am or what I’m doing, or if I’m with you or not… JUST like your warm blanket, you can stop, and remember, and you can always *FEEL* my love, wrapped around you, keeping you safe and warm and happy. And that’s there forever. You can remember that anytime. No matter what.”
“Oh, ok.” She nods quietly, smiles, and looks out the window, lost in thought.
And then we pulled up in the drop off line, and the moment was gone. And she jumped out of the car, waved, and said goodbye, like a 4-year-old, without a care in the world; like we hadn’t just had the deepest and most profound conversation of her life thus far.
“Remember that I love you,” I yelled after her.
“I love you too, mommy.”
And off we went. On a random Friday.
I’m looking forward to Mother’s Day this year, as we’re hosting family in our new home. I’m positive that it will be lovely day. But odds are, my kids aren’t going to remember it. But maybe, just maybe, 50 years from now, on Mother’s Day, Ellie will smile to herself and remember that my love is like a Paw Patrol blanket, and will smile to herself, and hug her children close.
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