I have started this post three times now, and nothing feels quite right. You see, I really can’t stand Mother’s Day, and I just had the best one ever.
If that is upsetting, feel free to stop reading here. This has been a hard year. However, if you are satisfied with your Mother’s Day celebrations and your relationship to the day itself, or if you deal with negative feelings towards the “holiday” and could use some hope, read on.
My night shift coworkers had a conversation on Friday about perfectionism and the lack thereof amongst the staff at our in-hospital coffee shop. A coworker had returned to the floor with a group order that included an iced coffee clearly marked “hot” on the outside, which is the temperature at which it was desired.
Grief is the furniture you inherited from your maternal grandmother living on your enclosed front porch for over a year because you didn’t want a daily reminder that she is gone inside your house.
Grief is slowly moving those items, one by one into your house, when it felt right.
Grief is the frame of the bed that you slept on when you spent two precious weekends caring for your Grandma when she was on hospice. It wasn’t too comfortable. The head of the bed was raised up on blocks to help with Grandma’s reflux.
This month’s antiracism title was Me and White Supremacy: Combat Racism, Change the World, and Become a Good Ancestor, by Layla F. Saad.
The chapter was “You and White Exceptionalism,” and I might be its poster child.
Between staying home and wearing masks, no one in our house has been sick since that dimly remembered time in the winter of 2019. No stomach bugs, no colds, and I haven’t missed it. Some of my most memorable parenting moments involve cleaning up after sick kids. Not this year! We were often anxious, but we were not sick.
