mother's day

Last Mother’s Day I was carrying his child, a 2nd and final son, and this year he is dead.

That thought hit me as I was making Axl’s peanut butter sandwich for school tomorrow. He was asleep on the couch after a busy day, and I had just put the baby to bed for the night. A rare moment alone where I didn’t have to fight the oncoming wave of grief that I felt reaching its crest and begging to crash. So I burst into tears and sobbed at the kitchen counter.

Last year I was carrying his child and we were happily married and this year I’m a single mother and my husband is dead.

This day has somehow been more difficult than all the other holidays I’ve weathered so far. Valentine’s Day, his birthday, my birthday, Easter… I felt his absence like I always do, but they didn’t feel any worse than my average day. But Mother’s Day… the pain crept up on me. For weeks, every advertisement for the upcoming holiday just made me depressed. The notion of celebrating mothers would make me think of being a parent, which would remind me that my kids are missing a parent and will always be. Then I would think of how it will soon be Father’s Day and how much that will hurt for all 3 of us. Thinking of Mother’s Day just reminds me I am a single mother now, completely against my consent. It hurts.

The people around me have done so much to make sure I felt loved and supported today, which was really special. There were flowers and cards and gifts and very nice text messages. But much like the other holidays, I can’t help but feel that everyone just feels bad for me. I worry that everyone feels obligated to constantly be doing extra for me because they all know what I am missing. Would everyone be so full of kind words about what a strong mother I am if my husband wasn’t dead? Would people be so eager to celebrate me? No one wants me to feel the lack so they go out of their way to make sure I feel loved. I really appreciate it, but it also makes me sad somehow. Especially on this day about being a mother - something I waited a long, long time to be. Something that I am because I was in love and married and had chosen a life partner to parent with. I always wanted to be a mother, but especially the mother of his children. And now I am, which I’m so grateful and blessed for, but I don’t get to parent with him anymore.

Pete is the reason I’m a mother and I guess that’s why his absence today is so deafeningly loud. 

Even at the Mother’s Day Luncheon at Axl’s preschool the other day, the whole time I was thinking “Oh god, what if there’s something like this for Father’s Day?” As I watched all the kids file out of their classroom and bring us homemade cards, my heart broke wondering if they’d be expected to make Father’s Day cards, too. I was supposed to be enjoying my afternoon and meeting the other mothers and soaking up my kids like everyone else, but instead I was ruminating about how my kids were robbed of a lifetime with their father. I knew I wouldn’t get to go home and tell Pete all about the lunch, how Axl ate half my cookie and only wanted to play soccer with his friends. I wondered how many of the other moms knew our story, holding my breath in anticipation of whether this was the kind of gathering where I would be made to say, “my husband died,” or the kind where it wouldn’t come up at all. I avoided too much eye contact out of fear I’d see that classic look of pity.

And sandwiched in between the special lunch and the special day was Axl’s soccer practice, the first one I went to alone with just the boys. I sat on the sidelines and sipped my coffee, surrounded by mothers and fathers cheering on their kids. The coach looks a lot like Pete and has a similar energy, and I nearly cried watching Axl eagerly await his instructions and clearly try to make him proud. I gazed around the field and my heart sank seeing all the dads. Pete was so excited for Axl so start soccer one day. He probably would have volunteered to coach. We had a deal that since I did so many of the early mornings of babyhood and toddlerhood, that once the kids started in sports, he’d take over fully and I’d spend my weekends lounging around and enjoying my free time while the boys did the sports thing. And yet there I was, two kids in tow, juggling armfuls of stuff to the field to sit alone. I wondered if anyone around me wondered where my husband was, whether he was working or just didn’t care to see his son play soccer. Sometimes I wish I could just get “widowed parent” tattooed to my forehead, a) so I never have to say it out loud ever again, and b) so people understand why I’m always alone everywhere.

It was a weekend that was supposed to be all about celebrating me, but I really wanted to crawl into a hole.