The night before is hard. And Mother’s Day morning. They’re the times when the rubbing it in feels the worst and I can’t tell whether I’m going to celebrate Mother’s Day or endure it.
I don’t suppose I hate Mother’s Day. I know I said I did on the floor in the shower that morning.
It’s the third Mother’s Day without Mum and I’ve learnt the formula now.
Sweet and bitter in equal parts. Gratitude and heartache. Happiness mixed with longing. A desire for presence tangled with the past.
In the morning there are homemade cards to read and a demand to parent. Preferably with a cool, calm and clear head.
Like Mum did.
There’s my inspiration. I stand up and turn off the tap. Anthony and the girls are waiting for me.
Mum was patient, attentive and warm.
I get out of the shower. We’re going for a drive and out for lunch. I feel like going after all.
‘Did you have a good Mother’s Day?’ one of the girls asks as we brush our teeth that evening.
‘Yes,’ I tell them. ‘The best.’
I honoured and remembered my mum and I celebrated with the beautiful crew who made me one.