Mother's day is one of my very favorite holidays. I'll admit, I love the handmade cards and soggy marigolds. The stick figure portraits, that make me look so thin, are a special favorite. Mostly though, the adoration with which these gifts come are what makes my day. The joy bursting from their little hearts let's me know, yet again, that it's Mom that rocks this house.
Sure, Dad keeps us safe, warm, sheltered, the yard maintained, the cars in working order, he fixes stuff and he even grocery shops. But, can he make a pancake pig? Kids don't recognize the millions of sacrifices we make for them everyday, they notice the minutia that makes them happy in the moment.
Mom chases fireflies with them, sucks the middle out of honeysuckle and colors Queen Anne's Lace in food coloring. I turn birthdays into events and the entire Christmas season is a series of magical traditions. Are they head over heals about four wheeler rides with their Dad and his surprise trips to the movies? Sure, but this is about Mother's day. We can talk about him next month.
With this special day upon us I can't help, but count my blessings, and their fingers, toes, and little noses. As happy as I am with my little wonders, I always come up one short. In 2002, on a rather ordinary Wednesday, my first pregnancy came to an end with no warning. I will never forget the kindness of the emergency room doctor. Or, the normally terse head of radiology who was warm and reassuring.
Twenty-four hours later all we had left were a few journal entries, a faded pregnancy test and a small stuffed heart that now adorns our Christmas tree each year.
So many mothers have lost children. Many go on to have more, some are blessed through adoption and yet others never complete their family while here on earth. All of these women have something in common. They never forget those babies.
There are no photographs or baby books for these children, nothing solid to hold onto, but the memories are still dear. No miscarriage date is forgotten, or would've been birthday passed by. My son, I can't be sure it was a boy, is kept safe pressed between the pages of my scriptures. The ultrasound picture is one of the few things I have that makes him real. He was an adorable little blob, spitting image of his father. I will carry that picture until the day I die.
The world may not remember these mothers this Mother's day. There's not a special card and these children aren't here to make beaded necklaces and petunias in Styrofoam cups. I will remember these Moms this holiday in a special prayer, and I hope you do too.
Don't you think they would've rocked the house?