Sunday will be my second Mother’s Day as an honoree.
In my youth Mother's Day was barely a blip on my radar. A card for my mom, a bunch of flowers: done and done. Then, after Josh & I were married, I started hosting a big brunch for my mother and his entire family. Waffles from scratch served with mounds of hand-whipped cream and sliced strawberries, mimosas, cheddar popovers, smoked salmon egg scrambles, painstakingly-chosen little objects of our love and devotion. It was an ordeal but I loved every minute of it.
Then, when we started trying to get pregnant and it wasn’t working (you know, for two goddamned years), it became a more difficult day to face. I continued to host the massive brunches and dole out the darling little tokens, but it stung. There was literally nothing on Earth or in Heaven that I wanted as much as I wanted to be a part of that gang of mamas, but I just could not get my lady parts to comply. My sincere smiles of love and appreciation became a frozen and bitter rictus. I would miss entire conversations because I was silently reciting my mantra: “Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Do not cry until after they leave. Are you crying? Stop it.”
Dash was four months old on my first Mother’s Day. The fellas took me to LACMA for a picnic and a visit to the dinosaurs ('though Dash lost his shit and we had to pack up and go home early.) There were no champagne flutes or Grand Marnier French toast. It was a thermos of wine and grocery-store sandwiches. It was a patch of grass on a sunny day and a baby who Did. Not. Want. To. Be. There. It was a family of three and it was the most excellent Mother’s Day anyone has ever had ever. Ever.