My oldest sister told me this week that she hated Mother’s Day. At first, I thought that was a pretty strong reaction for such a neutral, safe holiday. I mean, why wouldn’t you want to shoot some extra love to the woman who gave birth to you? But as she continued talking about how it only reminded her that our mother was dead, I started to realize I felt the same way. Not that I was going to glare at everybody who might wish me happy Mother’s Day, I realized I hadn’t celebrated the holiday since my mother passed over five years ago. I hadn’t remembered to send out a card to my mother-in-law in years, nor do I want my husband and children to get me anything.
It’s little moments like these that make me realize that although time has marched on since her passing, my attempt to be outwardly stalwart about the whole thing hasn’t stopped my subconscious from pitching a fit on the floor. I can honestly say it wasn’t an intentional thought to never celebrate Mother’s Day again. I guess my heart just couldn’t get behind it anymore, so my mind decided to forget it even existed.