Mother's Day

Of course I have to post something about Mother's Day, right?  I promise there is no mean snark in this one, just honest and sincere thoughts.

This is without question the hardest day of the year for me.  I know I am not alone in this, nor will I write anything groundbreaking.  I often skip church, but now that I am interpreting, I needed to go.  Plus, as my disposition has improved over the years I have been making the effort to at least attend sacrament meeting.  The sister I interpret for was not there, but I decided to stay as long as I could.

Sacrament meeting itself was fine.  The talks were on virtue, keeping Christ in our homes, and enduring adversity.  Nothing specifically on motherhood, so I was fine.  And then came the dreaded "gift for mothers" at the end.  This always causes me great pain.  I know that no one begrudges me a gift (in this case, chocolates), but I feel like an impostor accepting it.

In this case, it was even worse than usual.  I was sitting in a corner and not easily noticed.  The brother passing out the chocolates to those in our row I'm sure didn't see me, and so I was skipped.  I know him personally and I know he would NEVER do anything like that intentionally.  The oversight was later corrected, but the damage was done.  I came unglued, and ran away to home.  Maybe next year I'll make it for 2 hours.  Baby steps.

Finally, I can already hear all the protests coming in the comments.  I heard them today at church.  I have heard them my entire married life, and I will continue to hear them every year until we have children of our own (if that is in the cards).  "You can be a mother to the ward."  "You can help children in less-than-good homes."  "You are a teacher."  "You touch children's lives whether they are your own or not."  Here is the fact:  they are not mine, and that makes all the difference in the world.  I know everyone who says that means it well and is trying to be comforting.  I appreciate the effort.  I even know it is truth and the way my Heavenly Father would like me to see myself.  The problem is, I don't.  And that can make it even worse, because then I feel guilty for not having eternal perspective.  Guilt plus grief...that is why I hate this day.

Tomorrow I will probably be just fine.  There is no reason to feel sorry for me or even upset that you do not know the words to say that will comfort me.  There probably aren't any.  If there are, I don't even know them.  That is grief.  I have good days, and I have bad days.  Gratefully, I now have more good than bad, and I just hold on to the fact that I know once the week gets going again I will be too busy for depression and it will subside again.  And for today, I will marathon episodes of The Cosby Show and laugh at good, clean humor.