So it’s 11:54 pm on Sunday, May 10, 2009. It’s the last 6 minutes of mother’s day. It really was a great day, you know? I emailed students, I did a small organizational project I’ve wanted to do, and I spent all day with Dean. It was generally nice.
I called my mom, of course, and Dean called his, and we talked about presents and celebrations and all the goodness of the day. Every site I went to had a “happy mother’s day!” banner, adorned by flowers and cute insects; facebook had more baby pictures than ads; even gossip sites had features on famous mothers and children. I enjoyed reading it, I swear. That is, until I read that one blog about famous mothers’ favorite lines in childrens’ books.
Books are my escape. There are so many worlds to explore, characters to love and hate and fear and cherish. It what I do when I’m happiest; it’s what I do when I’m down. It’s where I go.
Reading a list of beloved lines from beloved books…my books, my havens, my happy places…and having them tied to happy moments with children broke me tonight.
The thing is, I will never, ever have a mother’s day. I will never have toddlers bringing me weeds in a boquet which I’ll proudly display on the table. I’ll never have surly teenagers reluctantly bring me breakfast in bed. I’ll never have a 20-something call me late in the evening pretending he hadn’t forgoten the date. I’ve seen it happen–I’ve even been on the kid side of that equation. I heard a thousand stories today, each sweeter than the last. My “I played video games and cleaned out the freezer!” story just doesn’t hold a candle.
There is no I-had-my-uterus-and-overies-taken-at-32-so-I-will-never-have-children-of-my-own day. If someone makes one, I hope it’s in August. I don’t have anything else to celebrate in August.