My Thoughts on Mother's Day

As a child, Mother's Day held all sorts of excitement for me. My father and I would go shopping at least a week before the big day so that we could search out that "just right" special present for mom. We would go to a minimum of ten stores (at the very least) during our outing. I always had a say in what presents we were purchasing, no matter how young I was-which could explain the reason behind why we had to visit so many stores. After we would make our purchases, then came the search for the perfect card and the perfect wrapping paper and accessories. Of course, dad was in charge of the wrapping part because I would always end up tangled in paper, tape and bows.

The morning of the big day, dad and I would get up extra early to make mom all of her favorite breakfast foods, which of course she couldn't eat all of because there was so much. Usually the smell of the coffee brewing would bring her into the kitchen before we could get a chance to go in and wake her up. But by then, we would already have her breakfast and presents artfully laid out on the dining room table. Each year her delighted reactions and smiles became more and more precious to me as I grew older and truly began to understand the real meaning behind Mother's Day.

But three months before my sixteenth birthday, life changed to the point that I would no longer be able to see those delighted happy smiles. My mother passed away from complications after open heart surgery. I was devastated, as was the rest of the family. But I took the longest to heal inside, I guess because I was so young when she died. For several years afterward, I dreaded Mother's Day. I would see so many people spending time with their moms, laughing and enjoying themselves, and I actually hated them for it. I was so sad over not being able to have my own mother around that I couldn't get myself past the bitterness. I wanted her with me too badly to even think about caring about the feelings of others around me, including my own family.