A Cookie Before Dinner

Happy Mother’s Day!

The words sting every time I hear it. I can’t escape those words this week. I stand in front of the card section and pause. I’m there to buy one for my mother in law. My husband is slammed at work, so the task falls to me. She’s a lovely, wondrous lady. Someone who completely embraced me as her own. And I adore her. Cherise her. She’s mine but not in the same familiar way that she is his.

So it feels like the cruelest of jokes. To be standing there in the card section, as a motherless daughter searching for a Mother’s Day card.

I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. I think of my cousins and close family friends both of who lost their mothers in the past year. I know how hard the first one is.

They and you are written in my heart. We have a shared experience of losing a wonderful lady before we were ready for it to happen. But then again, are we ever really ready? It never gets better, it just gets different. Bad days fade into more good ones. Life keeps moving.

But for me, there is another side of all of this. The joy I get to experience because I am a mother to a child still on this earth. I will celebrate Mother’s Day as I do everyday- being a mother.

My expectations and reality of motherhood do not always live on the same happy rainbow. But at the end of the day, Malone is here. And he is mine.

I’m lucky that way.

I’ve read your blog. I’ve cried with you through your infertility struggles. I’ve held your hand as we talked about your miscarriage. I’ve hugged you tight as we stood sobbing together in front of your child’s casket.

I wish you were in a different place today. A space that was full of happier things and at a time when the world seemed okay.

I can’t say that I know what you’re going through as a childless person on Mother’s Day.

I see you. I know your heart. And I know it hurts today.

And I want you to know that whatever it is you are feeling, it is valid and okay.

The recent tragedy of the Boston Marathon Explosion hit me like a ton of bricks. In fact, as I write this the news is just hours old. I am heartsick. I am wrecked. I can hardly see between the salty tears.

This is my husband. My best friend. My marathoner.

This is my baby. The joy of my life. My heart beating on the outside of my body.

This is the two of them finishing a marathon together.

My marathoner is racked with guilt tonight. He’s solemn as he watches the news. “It could have been us babe…it really could have,” he whispers quietly.

It takes almost every ounce of courage to whisper back, “I know.”

The what “ifs” consume me, but the what happened fills me with despair- the confirmed two who were wrong place at the wrong time. They were probably there with their parents or friends. Patriot’s Day (or Marathon Monday) is a BIG FREAKING DEAL in Boston. It’s the best day of all to be a Bostonian so of course they were there. Maybe they caught the Red Sox game first and made their way from Fenway Park down to the finish line. I hope. No, I pray that they died quickly and thought this was the AWESOMEST DAY EVER.

I’ve crossed that finish line a hundred times myself. I know right where it is. I’ve crossed it with girlfriends on the way out to get drinks, I’ve crossed it with boyfriends (including the one who turned into my husband) on dates, I’ve crossed it to go shopping, and I’ve crossed while showing out of town guests the city that I fell in love with.

Whether you’re there by circumstance or birth, once a Bostonian always a Bostonian. There’s a reason why the Sox have such a presence on their road games. We’re a unique breed- scrappy, friendly in our own way, a fan of our teams even with they suck (lucky for us that hasn’t been in A LONG TIME), but most importantly 100% heart 100% of the time. If you saw the video of the explosion, you’d see it plain as day. The first thing I noticed was the people who were running towards the blast instead of away from it.

Humanity who chooses to run towards the chaos instead of from it, just in case they can make a tiny difference and help.

The temple in Brookline that opened their doors after the blast happened. Who let the marathoners make calls on their land line to loved ones. Who fed them and gave them water.

The runners who ran straight to Mass General to give blood.

The off duty policeman who kissed his wife goodbye and said “sorry, duty calls,” as he walked out of the door to rush to the scene.

The preschooler who said to me quietly after I told him, “Mama, did anyone get dead today?”

“Yes, Malone.”

“That’s terrible. Maybe I can color a picture to send to their family. What a terrible thing,” he responds.

Good people. Doing good things for no other reason than to help their neighbor.

That’s what gives me a little bit of hope in all of this.