I start dreading this weekend as soon as the Mother’s Day cards appear in store aisles. It’s the Great Wall of Grief for me and I try to avoid it as much as possible.
And every year since 2003, my first Mother’s Day without my mother, I’ve tried to come up with a strategy for the day. Every year I seem to have a different plan but they ultimately have one thing in common – they fail miserably in helping me through the day. 
I want to be alone. I don’t want to be alone. I want to say home. I want to go out. And so it goes.
Most every Mother’s Day begins the same way for me now. I wake up, open my eyes and remember the day and then I feel this sudden churning deep in my gut– sort of like that feeling when you’re in an elevator and it descends really quickly and you try and catch yourself.
And then I cry. Sometimes softly, but sometimes I sob. I think about going to Harrisonburg, VA and taking my mother out to brunch at the Country Club. I think about what she would wear. My mother never really owned any casual wear and she always looked so stylish and elegant when we went out.
I think about drinking champagne with her. My mother loved champagne. Years ago at an outdoor wedding, we both were in our cups – or flutes as the case may have been – and giggled together all the way home in the back seat while my father and my partner at the time shook their heads.
Mostly I think about what we would talk about over brunch. We never ran out of things to talk about.
We just ran out of time.
They say that the longest day of the year is the Summer Solstice in June. I would argue that it’s the second Sunday in May.
Afterword: Through the magic of Facebook, I was given a gift this Mother’s Day weekend in the form of a blog post from Kate Spencer, entitled How I’m Making Mother’s Day My Bitch. It is, in a word, brilliant. Brilliant.
May it be a gift to all of you missing your mothers this weekend.
Bookends 
I didn’t have the relationship with my mom that you had with yours, but I do miss her. I have questions that won’t ever be answered and stories i don’t get to tell her.
I do worry about my girls having to one day not have me, but there’s not much I can do about it. I treasure the relationship we have now.
Thanks for the reminder, Addison.
PS: I love the article you linked to. You can do this! You are a badass, after all!
PPS: Your mama would be so proud of you.:)
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh, Robin, I get a lot of comfort from seeing nurturing relationships between mothers and daughters – like you and your girls. And I know I am very lucky to have had the relationship I had with my mother. And yes – I can do this!!! Love you!
LikeLike
I know just what you mean. I lost my mom two years ago, and my stomach clenches every time I think about Mother’s Day. At least it will be over in a couple of days.
LikeLike
I’m sorry for you loss, Donna, but I find comfort in connecting with people who get it. Thank you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Addy,
I have so many wonderful memories of
Francis, Flip, your Mom. My mom was so far
away and your mom was so close. Your Mom was so classy, so thoughtful, so “Steel Magnolia.” She was always dressed so beautifully in her Carol Little outfits. She did love her champagne.
I feel lucky that I can remember someone who was “like a mother to me” and just smile. I hope Kate Spencers article will ease your pain a bit. I think her advice was perfect.
LikeLike
Oh my God – this day just keeps getting better! Sweet Chris – tears as I read this – good tears (Bubba tears). You were so good to my parents and they adored you and Ed.
Carole Little – that made me smile my face off – hadn’t thought of that in years! I just can’t tell what this message means to me, my friend. Lots of years and tears under the bridge but my, oh my, we sure had a good time.
And yes – I’m making that bitch mine this year!
Love you!
LikeLike