Mommy Mondays have been a staple around here for as long as this blog has existed. But sometimes I sit down to write about parenthood and there’s nothing there. I am lucky to have healthy and happy kids. I knock wood just saying that. The trials and tribulations of a typical preschooler and a typical toddler, they just aren’t always interesting.
And while I know I may not always feel this way, for now I couldn’t dream of giving up writing about parenting on Mondays. Women sharing their stories, I’m passionate about that. Our stories aren’t always about our mother-ness, and I’m really glad I keep the mom talk to once a week. But at this stage in my life, and in many of your lives, it’s a common thread that we can share and connect on first.
I’m just recently home from Mom 2.0, a blogging conference that, despite the name, isn’t all about moms. The conference was at the gorgeous Ritz Carlton in Laguna Niquel, and because of a schedule mistake, I had the hotel room for an extra night. I took the opportunity as an early Mother’s Day present and went down early and enjoyed a beautiful day by myself by the pool, with two books and my journal. I got a massage, I ordered room service. It was lovely. Spending time by myself being pampered is the most opposite of being a mother, and for those 24 hours I relished it.
But, quickly, I got restless from being away from my family. After the conference I was anxious to return home, anxious to kiss the faces that mean the most to me. As actual Mother’s Day approached, I felt inexplicably sad. I didn’t know why. I had a wonderful time this weekend with my family. My in-laws were visiting, we ate delicious dinners and took the kids to the aquarium and The Gorilla made chocolate chip pancakes for Sunday breakfast.
But the gap between utterly grateful and slow and melancholy remained. I thought of my many friends who surely avoided a day dedicated to motherhood. I thought of my own mother, her crushing hugs that reside so far away. I thought of my sisters-in-law. I thought of adopted family members. I thought of babies lost and those who will never arrive.
It was sunny and warm on Mother’s Day, so when the rest of the house fell into an afternoon nap, I went outside and stared into space and chastised myself for not feeling cheerier. But motherhood, it isn’t so simple as that, is it? On the easiest day, it’s complicated. And I feel torn about celebrating motherhood precisely because other women have shared their hard stories. And I tell myself that’s stupid, then I tell myself that’s right. Being a woman, both before and after motherhood, admits me to the club.
Having access to the variety in the woman’s club, because of technology and because of thirty-three years of life, I feel indebted. For the sharing of the stories, for the kissing of the babies, for the luxurious ability to feel so grateful that it circles around to sad.
