Mother's Day Swirl

Here is the Mother’s Day swirl in my head today.

1.      I remember laborious breakfasts lovingly prepared—cinnamon toast, Café Francais, delivered on a tray to me in bed.  Small art projects.  Matching dresses.  Cards.

2.     Before that, I remember the infertility years and weeping at the hoopla for a day I deemed commercial, but yearned to belong to all the same. A club whose membership eluded me.

3. On Friday night, we go to a skating show. In dusty rose, a bevy of teenage skaters pay tribute to one of their own, who died in June. I ache for that mother, a stranger to me, but one whose loss—2 girls—is so profound that I can barely comprehend its hugeness. I watch the girls on the ice, gliding, twirling, each bit of choreography performed with so much love. I weep. I cry that night for all the children gone too soon and the mothers who mourn.

4.     In my mind’s eye, I see my mother, waving goodbye to us as we drove away.  We were always driving away, leaving her.  She was generous enough to let us go.  Every time.

5.     This morning, my husband drives to see his mother, who is 92.  It is right for him to do this.

6.     My son, the chauffeur, drives me to Whole Foods and to Trader Joe’s in the snow.  In the snow!!  We are intoxicated by being in these stores after 15 months of being at home.

7.     We return home with armfuls of flowers and frozen food.

8.     We eat ice cream in the middle of the day.

9.     I scroll through Facebook and feel overwhelmed by all the motherless daughters, all the grief on display.

10.     I push away the images of my mother that float up. Though she cried at supermarket openings—a family trait—she would not want me to be missing her.

11.  I had hoped to look in the yard for lily of the valley, her favorite, but the snow scotched that plan.

12.  Atticus and I light the gas fire and snuggle next to each other on the couch for a family Zoom call.  I see my husband, wondrous father to our three children, a state away, with his mother and his brother, his sister, and Jerry and Jerry’s two daughters.

13.  Ohio feels a little lonely.

14.  My sister and I text about the upkeep old houses require. Mom loved those houses.  We love them, too.

15.  I watch the snow and wonder if my plants, lovingly tended since March, and newly relocated to the garden, will survive. Maybe the snow will insulate them.

16.  I think about the five babies we didn’t have, the baby we almost adopted, the three we brought home, swaddled bundles, from New York Hospital long, long ago.

17.  There are no guarantees with parenthood.  One must wait a long time to see how it all turns out.  No one wants to claim a sociopath as one’s child. 

18.  I zoom with my two daughters and with Meg; we arrange flowers together, sharing all the tips we know about making bouquets. I bought more flowers than I needed.  I place four vases around the house.  Today, motherhood feels like abundance.

19.  Meg is the fairy godmother to my Jewish daughters. I am her son’s godmother.

20.  I nap and finish a novel, the plotline of which I could have predicted in my sleep, but it is utterly satisfying.  It is easier to read one-handed on my I-pad.

21.  We eat beef with broccoli and cauliflower rice for dinner by the fire—all prepared one handed!  I do some schoolwork, note that the snow has morphed to rain again, listen to our plaintive dogs bark for their father.  He will be back soon.

22.  Atticus seems unconcerned about a math final.  I marvel at this calm child I have produced and his two extraordinary sisters. 

23.  I marvel at all the children we’ve been lucky enough to love—so many we have had the good fortune to know.

24. My children post on Instagram. I feel their love, their fire to make the world better.

25.  Snow aside, it is a happy day.