... I woke up at 5 a.m. drenched in sweat following a dream about a car crash. No one died, but my daughter, her dad and I were injured, daughter the worst. Blood in her mouth.
I couldn't go back to sleep. Worry about graduation party fiascos, money, my thesis introduction that won't write itself and that I can't seem to write, though I must by Friday.
My daughter and her dad are taking me to dinner, and her papa baked me a Devil's food cake just because, you know, I like chocolate cake. No frosting. We never do frosting.
I'm not always sad on Mother's Day, but this year, and I think last, I've been blue and contrary and grumpy. In December of this year, just before Christmas, I'll make note of the 20th anniversary of my mother's death. Can she really have been gone that long?
I am glad that I had her for 35 years. She saw me through some difficult times when I was young. She triggered some difficult times when I was less young, but we got through them. I loved her. Memories of her still make me laugh, cringe, cry. She was funny and eccentric, smart but denied it, loved my father more than she loved breath.
I miss her, and that's a simple enough reason not to like the incessant barrage of Mother's Day messages that are everywhere, everywhere.
While I do love, love, love being my own child's mother, love being extra-mom to several other teens, I don't need a special day to celebrate this role. I'm one of those disgusting mothers who has loved every second of my daughter's childhood. I should be taking HER out to dinner, not the other way 'round.