I wanted to write this last weekend and didn’t. Every year on Mother’s Day I feel my mom’s absence, not because I remember how her voice sounded, or what she smelled like, or what her skin felt like. I don’t remember any of these things after 25 years. I only remember that I miss being mothered, even at 43. I think part of the reason why I feel her loss every year is because I am a mom myself and want to celebrate Mother’s Day just as a mom. And yet, every year my grief sneaks up on me and creates irritability and distraction.
My mental health is affected on these days, and while I know it’s to be expected, it bothers me nonetheless. I’m irritable and then feel guilty for feeling irritable, for not simply being grateful. Grateful for my family, my children and for my safety during a global pandemic. And I am grateful. But I’m also longing, longing to be mothered by own mom. Even in her all of her imperfections, all of her mistakes, all of her misfortune, I still have this longing for her. I doubt it will ever go away completely, it just continues to fade as the years go by.
Perhaps if I’m lucky enough to live past 49, I will see my daughters graduate from high school, start their adult lives, support them in their education, value their choices, encourage them, help them to keep themselves safe and healthy. Things I didn’t have. I hope that when these days come, I will remember that supporting them is a privilege, that I don’t try to force what I want on them instead of listening to what they want. I hope that next Mother’s Day, my longing is a little less. xo Janet