Mothers’ day approaches and so I pretend. Pretend I don’t feel the emptiness, that my dogs are enough to fill the empty hole which the gears of my biological clock drill deeper each month. Perhaps this will be the last mothers’ day where I am a mother only to my sweet four legged kidos.
I scurry, choose mothers’ day gifts, prepare French toast, soup, sandwiches, eggs and sausage. I keep thinking that if I make enough food, and whip myself into a tornado of chaos; somehow I won’t hear the deafening silence. It works for a while. I admire the tidiness of the house, and savor the aromas of the meal I have prepared.
With food heated, and the table set, they arrive. They don’t know the full extent of our struggle, it’s not their burden and I can’t bring myself to discuss it with them. Their judgment and opinions are something I can’t endure. We have an understanding, I’ll share what I’m comfortable sharing. They don’t ask questions. This is something you can’t analyze from afar; it’s a calling that I hear in my heart. Day in and day out my body reminds me what it was made for, every piece of me craves mother hood.
We chat about days gone by. When my husband and I were small, and do I know that my mother sill has things from my childhood put aside for some day, if I ever… Couldn’t have mothers’ day without that inevitable reminder. After an uncomfortable pause the conversation switches. There are gifts, laughter, and eventually, I cry. If I’m lucky, I can wait until they leave to let loose and have my moment. My moment when I dream about holding my own miracle next year, when I’ll be too busy and tired to do anything but fall asleep holding the miracle that God has given me.