So next Sunday will be my 9th Mother’s Day celebration. Except Mother’s Day is really not much of a holiday in my book. Like, didn’t people appreciate their mothers before Hallmark told them to? And if you spend even 3 minutes, you can find out just what germinated the inkling that Mother’s Day was a good idea. Of course, then came the onslaught beginning with Father’s Day and heading through every relationship a person can have.
It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the sentiment. Because I do. It’s just that for me, May 5th is just way more meaningful. Because May 5, 2000 was the day I became a mom.
I really cherish the quiet early moments of May 5th. I like to think back to those stolen moments with my newborn and just how fiercely I loved that little person. I like to think about how far of a gap lies between how I thought mothering him would be and just what mothering him actually is.
So next Sunday, I won’t mind a bit to be handed tissue paper wrapped handprints and photo frames made of popsicle sticks or whatever the case may be. But what I’ll really want is just one more time to hold my newborn in my arms in the stillness of a hospital room and dream of what our future will be like.