The Second Sunday in May
Mother’s Day is this Sunday. But I’m sure you already know that.
If you are waiting for your babies, patiently or impatiently, or if you’ve lost them—then you are acutely aware of all the days that will sting you a bit deeper. By now, the pandemic of infertility has infiltrated even the smallest of towns, churches, friend groups, and online forums. The whispered questions of whys, how’s, and what’s wrong with them, has now made even our grandfathers aware of what IVF is.
We hang our heads and don’t make eye contact when they hand out carnations on Mother’s Day service. We have become professional subject-changers when the conversations drift towards pregnancy questions, and we have trained ourselves to smile with our eyes when friends tell us their good news. And while I said I would never admit it—I’ve even dug a negative pregnancy test out of the trash can. Just to see if the plus sign appeared long after I’d buried it under an empty tube of mascara.
This populace of women who put on brave faces to continue life through heartache has been one of the most harshly beautiful things I’ve witnessed these last few years. We hide our pain by obsessing over child-free activities when all we want is to go to Disney on Ice. We blog about our shots, search hashtags to find community, and try to lift each other up when all we want to do is throw something against the wall to watch it shatter.
Ah, yes. The satisfying urge to throw whatever we hold—and watch something else break under the weight of force, to see an object detonate into small shards of scrap, to break anything else so we don’t break ourselves.
That should fill the void of where my mothering should stand.
We’ve collided here, haven’t we? In this space of waiting, we have all cautiously connected to one another. We’ve sent messages of me toos, given advice, and recommended doctors to call and herbal teas to drink. We’ve become expert avoiders, knowing when and how to remove ourselves from any place we can be bothered by the sight of baby socks and pregnant women. And I have to tell you, in my waiting, the bonds I’ve made with other women have shaped who I am today.
No one took the time to tell me that I was still a woman of value during all my other Mother’s Days past.
No one looked me in the eye to tell me I was still important without having given birth. They only took the opportunity to hand me a wilted carnation and declare that by next Mother’s Day I would be happier, more fulfilled, and maybe hold more space in my new title of Mama. We have to stop allowing this to happen to us.
There is nothing else to say now. No more clichés to make us feel better, no Bible verses to ease your hurt or frustration. No more Old Wives tales to take up space in your daily routine. This waiting, the counting the days, cycles, and watching everyone you know accept your most desired wish with ease and offhanded spontaneity—it builds a grit and appreciation, it curates a strength that money cannot buy.
This waiting is where you meet you. I’ve met myself on the floor of my infertility. I’ve met God in a way I’d never seen His goodness through a broken heart.
I haven’t enjoyed it, but, if given the chance, I wouldn’t change my walk to motherhood.
Every Mother’s Day past, along with every Mother’s Day future, will always wash over me with a pang of melancholy. I will always remember the loneliest days when my head felt so heavy that I wasn’t sure I could ever look up again. My heart will always be a bit broken, and I will remember my losses more deeply on days where I’m told to appreciate what I have, and not complain about what I’ll never know. I will always wonder why so many of us had to fight so hard for a title that so many take for granted.
I wish you nothing on this Mother’s Day. Not good luck, or good health.
Not positive vibes or a thick uterine wall. I will not give carnations or stiff greeting cards with “Thinking of You” memos.
I will only reach out my hand to hold yours. I will grip the hands of other women as we fight hard won battles for our kids, as we hold our chins up when hear “the heartbeat has stopped”, as we lift each other up to remind us that we matter. These card holidays aren’t as inconsequential as we may believe them to be. They leave bruises where scars already live.
If only we could have a day for the otherhood, the women who don’t want children, can’t have children, have buried her children, and who’ve only gotten glimpses of her babies through static black and white images.
If only there was a day for us to say, “Look at me through the lens of motherhood. I was there, too.”
