This Sunday is Mother’s Day, and I am a wreck.
I don’t think that I ever expected to be so sad over this holiday. Even calling it a holiday seems strange. I associate holidays with happy memories and warm feelings—the compete antithesis to what is churning inside me.
I think the biggest reason why I’m so torn up about Mother’s Day is that it is so much bigger than just the loss of you—it’s a reminder of the loss and unfulfillment of my biggest wish, to be a mother.
For so many woman it’s a day to get precious little hand-drawn cards and breakfast in bed from their sticky-fingered children. But for me it’s kind of like a slap in the face. Almost like a cruel joke being played on me. A whole day dedicated to pointing out the fact that I still have no child to call my own.
I know, I know, so many people would say to me “but you are a mother.” Technically, yes, I am. I have had two babies, brought one into this world, and said goodbye to both. And for this past year I have desperately tried to become a mother again. But I’m not.
Yes, I’m mothering Champ right now. But, he’s not my forever son. I won’t hold the title of “mama” in his life for more than this short season, and I’ll have to say goodbye to yet another precious baby.
This desperation, this longing, comes from the day that I first chose to love you, despite your negative prognosis. That day my Mother Heart grew it’s first bud. On June 5th, when I first was cheek to cheek with you, my Mother Heart blossomed. It continued to grow and flourish for each of the 47 days of your life. And on the day you died? It did not wither away, it lived on strong.
This beautiful, blooming Mother Heart beats in my chest day in and day out. It is calling out to a child, and there is none to answer. I can’t control it’s power or pull. It just is.
always. constantly. waiting. aching. hoping.
I wish that this Mother’s Day could be a day of happiness and thankfulness for me. Sophia, I honestly do. It would be so much easier than this. But I just can’t get over this sadness.
I’ve already made plans to keep to myself on Sunday. I am not strong enough to be around those who remember you and will give me the sad glances and the I’m so sorry you have to endure this day extra-long hugs. I’m also not ready to be around those who have forgotten or never knew that we lost you. The ones who will give me the great big grins thinking that Champ is my son and will assume that I’ve surely had a beautiful day with him.
I just think it’s best for me to spend time alone, deflecting as much additional grief as I can.
Sophia, I’m sorry that mommy is being so sad and depressing this week. I wish that I could be different for you. But this is my heart and these letters are a way for me to share it with you. The good, the bad—the real.
In less than a month it will be your birthday, and less than 7 weeks after that it will be your death day. Oh, “Sophia season” how I am quickly discovering that you defeat me.
Before I end this letter I want to send a message out to all the other mothers who are like me. Whether they are mothers who have lost their babies, or mothers who have not yet been able to have babies, we are one in the same. I want to send out a prayer on all of our behalfs:
Heavenly Father, hear our cries. We are heart broken, hurting, and in need of your Perfect Love. Comfort us in the midst of sadness. Give us hope in the midst of brokenness. Help us to remember that You are all we need, and that You are enough. You are enough. Place peace in our hearts and comfort in our minds. Keep us from the trap of comparing and coveting. Protect us on this Mother’s Day, and give us love that only the Father can give. I pray that if it’s Your will You will place a child in each of our arms, and if it’s not, then You will fill that void in our hearts with You. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
Thank you for making me a mommy. I love you, Sophia.