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(trigger warning: pregnancy, infertility, miscarriage)

 

I have a Mother.

I celebrate her.

I wish I were a Mother.

I’m not.

Today we celebrate Mother’s, and so I partake.

She was celebrating the woman who not only delivered me so perfectly into this world but who prepared me so wonderfully for it. My Mother is everything I want for myself in many ways; Independent, generous, loving and determined. She was an inspiration in a world of women I couldn’t connect with. A top saleswoman, business owner, wife {now 36 years}, avid sportswoman, and mother of three. She defined choice as a woman for me. She was an example of living your life. Having what you want. All of what you want.

It doesn’t make today more accessible.

To have a woman like my Mother to celebrate.

It’s still hard.

I want MY chance to be that Mother.

To someone.

Anyone.

I want to tell those parents who don’t appreciate their children enough {you know them, I’m not just being judgemental} to wake up to themselves. I want to stand before them and ask if they have ANY idea how lucky they are. How lucky to have won the genetic lottery of randomly being able to spit out children at the drop of a hat. DO THEY KNOW!?

They better know.

I’m so angry; they are just better.

I don’t care HOW hard their day was today.

Really. Do they know?

This month I was late. You didn’t know that. No one does, really—just me & Hubby. Now you. I couldn’t even bring myself to test such is my neurosis these days. It was 11 days, I was just about brave enough to try, and it happened. It passed. Like before but a little less painful. Emotionally and physically. Because I didn’t start to dream, it didn’t exist yet. For me. For Hubby. For anybody. This time. It was earlier. It might not have even been. I’m numb. It doesn’t matter to me right now. It matters too much to count.

And so here we are.

In May.

Mothers Day.

No Mother here.

Have you met my husband? You have?

Well, when is HIS turn?

When do the bullshit waiting and heartbreak end for him?

Do you know what Mother’s Day reminds me of?

No crappy, poorly planned gifts from my husband. Because HE doesn’t get to play either, he has to sit on the sidelines. No, for my wife, the mother of my children, cards here. Just another day passing. I sometimes wonder how he feels about Mother’s Day ads. Do they stab him in the heart to? The Dad stands proudly in the background as the children fall over their mother. Laughing. Joyous moments of family.

He covers it nicely.

I know him better.

When is his turn?

 

We’re a family with a missing piece—a space.

 

(To the person who emailed and said my blog was ‘less real lately’. Is THIS real enough for you?? Well, is it? I hope you’re happy with my guts and drama all over the page. I hope this is enough for you.)

 

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