Posted in about me, ebb & flow, gifts, vulnerability

Mother’s Day. It’s complicated.

I’ve written and deleted three fully-written posts for today, each full of different stories and details than the others.

All were true, but none seemed right.

I know that the more I heal from the trauma of my childhood, the more years that go by without choosing the least disingenuous card I can find, the less today hurts. The more I can be happy for people who have great relationships with their moms.

The Kid is usually with The Tall Daddy on Saturdays overnight and on Sundays during the day. I’ve not spent Mother’s Day with him since he was very little.

It’s always been a kind of isolating day.

Add to the mix friends struggling with infertility, friends who are still mourning the loss of their moms, friends who are mourning the loss of their kids, and it’s just a plain old rough day.

A few years ago, a good friend suggested that her family and The Kid and I get dinner together, and thus, a tradition was born. We’ll share a meal tonight for the fifth year in a row.

Yesterday, for early Mother’s Day, The Kid and The Climbing Daddy took me to a local nursery where I got to pick out a desert rose and a pot for it. I have always admired these plants at the Desert Botanical Garden. The Climbing Daddy found out some information about taking care of them, and it’s possible.

I chose the one with the best roots (this one had a tunnel!), because the flowers will come.