It’s fast approaching. That day of the year. The one that fills me with a special kind of pain: Mother’s Day.
Reminders of MD are unavoidable, as everywhere I turn advertisements oh-so-helpfully remind me of its impending arrival: “Don’t forget mom!”, “The perfect gift!”, “She’s worth it!” It’s epidemic.
All my life, MD has been the one day that I yearly want to kick in the nuts. See, I never knew my mother. And the person who later became my so-called stepmother managed to scar my psyche in myriad ways against the concept of mothering… but that’s entirely too much crap to cram into a blog post. Toss in six-plus years of infertility and three miscarriages and here’s the result.
This is only pain talking. Deep pain. Real pain, not to be mistaken with bitterness. Just sayin.
The last several years I purposely avoided church on MD. Then last year on MD—fueled by some unexpected bout of starry-eyed over-enthusiasm—I attempted to attend church. I lasted exactly ten minutes, congratulating myself on my valiant strength in the face of adversity all the while. That is, until I encountered a fellow parishioner who’s five years younger than me and has four children. Wearing matching mommy-and-me dresses, she and her youngest toddler paraded through the church hallway holding hands, smiling, and basking in compliments on how adorable their matching garb was. Yep: that was the catalyst. Jake and I ducked out before service even began.
I won’t make that mistake again. This year I’ll resume skipping church; avoid restaurants; stay away from the grocery store; flee Facebook like the plague. Instead, I’ll hang at home with Jake, Puppy, Netflix, and a pint of almondmilk ice cream. Maybe even pop a painkiller, because this is the third consecutive year that I’ve had my period and monster cramps on MD weekend. *insert extra gut punch*
Sometimes you just need to protect your heart.