It’s one of those days that sparks emotion in pretty much everyone; love, sadness, pride, happiness, loneliness, disappointment, contentment and I’m guessing that’s only the start. Mothers Day, it’s a mixed bag at best.
For us, the past five years (five years… when did that happen?) have seen it become tainted, smeared, simply by the timing of the event. Coinciding with the week Poss’ diagnosis, as well as the death of my nan on the day itself, it will never be the same as it was before.
Those two things, big enough on their own, but something entirely different when clumped awkwardly together, have weighed on the day heavily, shaping it into something new, something different, something not quite suitable for a Hallmark card or fixable with a bunch of grocery store flowers.
So we don’t really celebrate anymore. It’s too hard. Too much. Too something. Instead we look for ways to make it special by just passing the time. It’s there, but not. Like if we don’t look at it, it might just pass us by without the bitch slap it’s delivered in years gone by.
So yesterday we visited a gallery, watching Poss climb and jump all over the exhibit that was placed there just for that purpose. A mothers day excursion, but not. Spending time with family without the pressure of a day that carries so much expectation.
This morning Poss wrote me a letter forgiving me my mistakes, in the same breath she declared me her inspiration. Beautifully written and wise beyond her years; she’s a girl that has a way with words.
She proudly served me a plate of toast cut into tiny little love hearts, covered in Nutella and sprinkles, with a mug of cold Milo on the side. It’s her favourite breakfast saved for special occasions; not surprisingly she was happy to eat my left overs.
She left me a trail of clever clues around the house, that eventually led me to a little pile of precious love; drawings, a loom band bracelet and a photo. Flowers from husband and brownies made by Poss came later. We watched movies while the rain bucketed down outside, and the hours passed by until the day was done.
Small touches, tiny moments, filled with love, in a day that was otherwise pretty much the same as most other Sundays. And that was enough.
More than enough.