I’m uneasy about openly celebrating certain holidays — for example, Mother’s Day.
I grow queasy as the day approaches. I start to feel sad about those who wished for children, but could not.
I think of those who have had horrendous childhood memories and abuse.
My heart breaks again for those grieving the loss of a mom.
I start to weep for those who have lost a child.
I think of those who chose not to have children but are subjected to the question(s), “Why don’t want one?” [As if their decision doesn’t matter! Blasphemy!]
I feel equally uncomfortable about the commercialism.
My own story was such that at 25 some coldhearted doctor announced (while still in the not-so-lovely-stirrup-position-adorned-in-a-floral-paper gown), “You’ll never have a child because of adhesions and scar tissue, endometriosis and multiple cysts.”
He was wrong and really, truly insensitive (I have other words, but I will refrain).
I am grateful for being a mother. It is the path I chose. Within a few blinks, I can pivot into memories of sleepless nights, colds, flus, snot and poop.
I almost stop breathing when I remember staying with my son while in the ICU. I have no idea where my strength came from then or now.
It just is.
I am a mother but also a teacher. I am kind and giving. I am a writer and poet.
We are more than just-one-attribute. I celebrate all of you.
Much love and kindness. ~ Carolyn