Last year on this day I intentionally spent the day alone, avoiding people, because I was two months pregnant and afraid that I wouldn’t make it to the end of the pregnancy with a living baby. I didn’t want to be wished a happy mother’s day, because I didn’t feel like a mother. I felt like a fraud.
It’s a weird place to be, when you’ve had a miscarriage and have struggled with infertility, it steals the joy that hope offers for a miracle. You learn not to expect anything, that way if it doesn’t become a reality, you’re not overly disappointed. Or at least that’s what I told myself.
This year I am sensitive to the fact that there may be women out there who in their heart are already a mother but they may not have the baby that their heart dreams of holding. I wish I could make every mother’s dream come true. I wish every mother could be as happy as I am.
Even on my worst day when I’m at my wits end, which honestly doesn’t happen that often, it’s the best day of my life because this world is where William lives. I hear his laugh, his squeals, even his screams of joy. I see his smiles, I feel his super soft, chubby skin, I stroke his hair, I feel him nursing… and even with all that, I can still hardly believe that I get to actually hold every day and night in my arms the tangible result of the dreams of my heart.
Happy Mother’s Day.