Dear My Mother: I wanted to send you a card to mark your special day, but the real truth is I can’t come within 100 yards of that aisle at Walgreen’s without feeling a little sick to my stomach. Like I ate too many sweets or ingested poison. Something’s off. And I think it’s the messaging.
Certain as I am that my mom made many a positive contribution to my life starting with the fact that she, you know, gave it to me, I’m not inclined to thank you’s. I mean, after all, grateful as I am to be here, I didn’t exactly ask for it.
It’s my first Mother’s Day as an Infertile. Last year I only just suspected, but this year it’s official. I know I may never have cause to facebook the birth dates or weights of my kids or open the mail to a plethora of cards from people celebrating the way I’m not unlike over 85.4 million American women who answer to “mom” and who, in spite of their population density, are still super special to somebody. Or several somebodies depending.
As it is, though, I’m a crazy cat lady with a “fur baby” and the kind of serious perspective my own mother, thankfully at that, never had. Because when she wanted me, I appeared as if an answer to her prayers. Uncomplicated.
Apart from that 14 hour labor, I made parenthood simple, easy: A happy baby turned precocious, smarty-pants kid who knew everything but rarely talked back, excelled in school, never warranted the kind of disciplining parents give their child when they happen upon a half-smoked pack of cigs in her jacket, a condom wrapper on the back seat of his car, a dime bag in her dresser drawer. I never got wasted at a high school party, boned a bare-chested boy after prom or required a police escort. None of that. Not. Me.
So for this dearth of trouble for which my mother is, no doubt, at least partly to thank – duh, I turned out just swell! – she gets this holiday I gave her.
You’re welcome, Mom.