Mother’s Day is one of those days when I try not to think. About anything. Sometimes I’m successful. I’ll go for two hours without a stray thought in my head. But more often, less than an hour goes by and I’m reminded again of my own barrenness.
I hate Mother’s Day. I absolutely adore my mother — don’t get me wrong — but I absolutely hate Mother’s Day. It is a slap-in-the-face type of reminder that I can’t have kids because of what happened physiologically to me when I was raped when I was nine years old.
I was fortunate enough to see my brother and my mother today. My mom is such a gracious and loving person — I would never be where I am without her.
It was a pleasure putting a basket of flowers on my mother’s porch, and a hanging basket to the right of her front door. It distracted me from the echoing in my head: you’ve had four miscarriages.
Those are four children who never were. Four times I missed my opportunity to be what I always wanted to be. What I always knew I’d be good at. To be a mom.
I’m old now, I know. I can’t have kids now, even if I could carry them. For whatever reason, in this go-round I am just not meant to experience certain paths in life that others are able to.
It pains me. Greatly.