The Sunday Sessions: 5.13.18 Edition
Sunday is traditionally a day in which we slow down, take time for reflection, and recharge. Every Sunday, I will share a poem, excerpt, or thought that will make us think, wonder, or even laugh as we prepare ourselves for the upcoming week.
Today is Mother’s Day. Today is hard. It is my first Mother’s Day without my mom. Maybe in the years to come, I will fondly recall the Mother’s Days of my youth when I would make breakfast for my mom, bring it to her in bed, and leave her to eat in peace. Laughing, she told me years later that she felt so lonely eating her breakfast all by herself.
But this Mother’s Day, all I can think about is our final Mother’s Day together. Last year, I was up early on Mother’s Day, because at that time I was seemingly always up. My daughter was 6 months old, and while her sleeping was becoming more routine, she still woke up two to three times a night. I felt exhausted all the time and lived in a continuous fog that registered times as merely four digits. Whether those four digits represented hours in the morning or hours in the night didn’t really seem to make much of a difference.
I was so new to being a mother that I felt like an imposter celebrating it in any way other than solely for my mom and mother-in-law. My husband and I had arranged to meet our mothers for brunch that morning. I bought a card for my mom the night before and had meant to write a note inside expressing my endless love and gratitude for her, but time slipped into the haze I had become accustomed to living in and that note never got written. The next day, I found myself in the car outside the restaurant hastily writing the names of our family inside the card. I was still slightly surprised whenever I signed a card from three people instead of two, kind of like remembering to sign my married name instead of my maiden name after our wedding. It takes time to adjust to such a huge identity change.
The brunch was just okay. The service was slow. The food was dull. The atmosphere was uninspired. It could have been better. For our moms, it should have been better. My husband and I vowed that it would be better next year.
That was my last Mother’s Day with my mom: a mediocre brunch, a nice, generic card, and the promise to do a better job the next time.
My mom kept the card on the windowsill in her bedroom right by her bed. I found it after she passed, and I immediately wished I had written inside everything I had intended to say but didn’t make the time to do so. I know she already knew what I wanted to tell her. I know she knew I was exhausted, run down, and in desperate need of sleep that came in increments longer than four hours. I know she knew how much I loved, respected, and admired her. But I still wish I would’ve written it anyway.
Questions of the Week
If you knew this was your last Mother’s Day with your mother, what would you say to her? If your mother has passed, what would you say to your mother on this Mother’s Day if you knew she could hear you?
Now go tell her. Whether she’s alive or she has passed, tell her today.