Tomorrow will be very different from the past six Mother’s Days I have so innocently spent with my boys.
Tomorrow will not find me waking up with a smile from ear to ear knowing my husband will deliver my usual breakfast in bed while my children all squeeze in to get a bite.
Tomorrow will not find me wanting to eagerly accept every “Happy Mother’s Day” message knowing I am not 100% fully happy.
Tomorrow will not find me with all my children’s arms wrapped so tightly around me or mine around them.
Tomorrow will not find me wanting to post the typical Mother’s Day picture of all of my children, knowing damn well one is missing.
No.
For grieving mothers, tomorrow may look, feel and just be different, and that is because, it so unfairly is.
It is different. It will always be different. And it will forever be a day when I am reminded of how honored I am to be a mommy to my boys on earth but how much I long for my baby in heaven.
I know how blessed and fortunate I am to be able to celebrate this day with my living sons and please, we do not need to be reminded. The last thing a mom who lost their child needs to hear is how happy they should feel instead; it does not and won’t ever make us feel better.
Of course, part of me looks forward to the day, to be honored to be the very one thing I have dreamt of being since I was a little girl (and to be able to be doted on for the day by my guys is always a fun bonus). But most importantly, to just take a step back and acknowledge the beautiful lives my husband and I have created (although we all know we don’t need one day to do this out of the year).
But those thoughts have now immediately been interrupted by feelings of guilt, sadness, and emptiness. It is a trigger of how my sweet Julian isn’t here.
My third child who cannot join us for our usual Mother’s Day activities. Who cannot be part of our annual Mother’s Day picture, who I cannot touch, cannot hold, who cannot remind me that our family of five has now been completed.
The anxiety I have in knowing the day will very much be spent with highs and lows. Times of laughter and smiles, and within minutes will swiftly be changed to moments of pain and sorrow.
Sadly, it isn’t just tomorrow that these feelings come rushing through with a force so hard it literally takes my breath away.
It’s my every day.
Many of you read my blog to get more informed on how to help those who have endured a loss and is one of the main reasons I write. So I would hope by now, if you have learned anything at all, it's that we just want our children acknowledged as if they were living.
I am also aware there may be those who dismiss me all together because they think it will hurt me more if they speak of him or just don’t know what to say; but that couldn’t be farther from the truth.
Please do.
Please, go ahead and wish me a happy Mother’s Day, even if it stings, but I beg you to follow it up with something about my son who isn’t here, to include him with my living children. I don’t want Julian to be avoided or dismissed, ever, even if it makes you uncomfortable saying it.
Because the truth is, I live with this discomfort every second I take a breath.
Surely, someone can handle it for a second out of their whole day.
And you know what? Although it may bring up sadness, it will instantly be followed by a breath of fresh air at the same time. Just in that moment alone, we quickly become aware of how you made the choice to reach out and not ignore. It makes us think of you in a different way, it makes us realize there are people out there who refuse to forget, who refuse to openly avoid it to save themselves from their own discomfort.
And that may be the sole thing any mother who can’t physically celebrate with all (or any) of their children needs, in order to get through this ‘Happy’ Mother’s Day. I know I do.
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