The Mother of All Days

It's Friday. Under normal circumstances this would make me happy. Brent and I ordered Chinese, we'll watch some Madam Secretary and maybe Good Wife if I can stay awake long enough. I'm already in my pajama pants with my feet up. By all accounts I should be happy.

But I'm not. Instead I am sitting here dreading the next two days. Terrified of them. You see, it's already begun. It started at work today. "Have a great Mother's Day! Do you have any fun plans?" And it's only going to get worse tomorrow and the day after.

Under normal circumstances I would be excited. Mother's Day means presents! Sleeping In! Controlling the remote! And a fun outing like the zoo or Lake Geneva! But this year, it's just another milestone to push though. Another painful reminder of what we lost. Another day without my daughter.

What I want to do is stay in bed all day and cry. Maybe read a book or watch a Lifetime Movie. What I want is to spend the day wallowing and crying and feeling sorry for myself. Because I've earned that right dammit! I carry the scars and the pain every day. So just one day, this particular day, I've earned the right to lose it just a little. Not for a week and not forever. Just one day to let go and stop being strong and feel all the feelings.

But what does that say about my son. What does that say about the kind of mother I am to him. How would it make him feel if I gave in to my grief and didn't leave my bed. Would the message to him be that he doesn't matter? Because nothing could be further from the truth. He is absolutely the reason I keep moving right now. When I think I've lost the strength to put one foot in front of the other, it's his face I picture and I forge ahead. He deserves a mom who is whole and present. And even if I don't feel that way anymore, I refuse to let him see that. He matters.

So I'll get out of bed, put one foot in front of the other and push through the day.

But what does that say about my daughter? That she doesn't matter? That she stopped breathing and therefore stopped counting? That she is out of sight and out of mind? That she's not missed or loved. That Charlie means more than Hannah to us because he is here, he didn't leave. That I don't mother her simply because she died?

How does one spend Mother's Day when one child is gone and one is here? How do we honor one and celebrate another? How do we make this day whole and not painful. It's not like there is a middle ground here. There is no easy answer. Much like everything else in this process, I struggle for answers and find simply more questions and an aching heart.