I forgot to remember or, Why I hate Mother's Day

So, did you do it? Did you call or text or mail a card to or take out to brunch or spend time with or write a special poem to or make a special craft for your mommy?
Did you demand your children call you or pay you some measure of expected respect today?
Maybe you sat alone, wondering why your mom gave you up for adoption?
Or maybe your womb cried out to you as you second guessed the abortion you had.
Did you stare at the phone cringing at the thought of speaking to your mom because the conversations are always difficult, hurtful or full of awkward silences.
Or... maybe you tried desperately to not think about how much you are not a mom even though you've spent hundreds of thousands of dollars trying to be.

Culturally commercial expectation. It sucks right? I mean, why is there a determined day to "honour" mothers, or fathers for that matter?

Did you know the original intent behind Mother's Day was not to perpetuate the commercial sector? It was a call to arms. A battle cry if you will for moms, for Women to stand up against the destruction of the world, of their children.

Julia Ward Howe. The woman behind "Battle Hymn of the Republic" wrote "Appeal to womanhood throughout the world" in 1870 later to be known as "Mother's Day Proclamation". She had had enough of war, the American Civil War and then the Franco-Prussian War and was pleading an appeal to woman all over the world to take hold of their responsibility to change and shape their respective societies at the political level.

THIS IS BIG STUFF

This is a passive call because it's words on paper not violence with arms, but it is big none the less. She was calling the women of the world to active peace. A passive call to active peace. What does that look like? Does it look like Hallmark cards and 1-800-flowers?

Julia worked tirelessly to forward her message of active peace with speaking tours and rallies all over the world and from this sprouted gatherings that were rooted in faith, protest and feminism. Nine years later however, after it had been turned into a celebration and a holiday by then American president Woodrow Wilson, Julia cried in frustration and demanded boycotts saying, "this is not what I intended. I wanted it to be a day of sentiment, not profit"

I am so completely opposed to hallmark holidays I can't even begin to tell you. Things that have a raw, deep, cutting history are turned into fluff and cause our humanity to think only of ourselves and what we aren't getting.
My oldest son gave me a marigold in a pot with a little card that he made at school on Friday and I loved it because he made it. Not because it was mother's day and I damn well better get something. Today my two oldest, in their Sunday school classes gave me flowers made from paper cut outs of their hands and I love them because it is from their own person, those flowers are their hand shape and size. I don't, however, love them because it's mother's day and somebody better give me flowers or else.
I don't expect my husband to wait for this day to thank me for being the mother of his children and if my boys need a special day to tell my that they love me then somewhere along the way I really screwed the pooch as a mom and what do I do now? That means I am sure to have no relationship with them at all, whether it's mother's day or not.

I have a son, my oldest oldest, to be precise, that I haven't heard from since May 7, 2007. This year, had he reached his due date would have been 7. And this year for the second year in a row I forgot to remember him on the anniversary of his first and last day of his timeless life. Does that make me feel like less of a mom? You betcha it does. Does it make me feel like I've been a mom for 7 years even though my current oldest is only 5 1/2?  You betcha it does.

This anniversary will always fall close to mother's day. My first "mother's day" was May 12, 2007 and I hated it. But, it gave me the opportunity to look rationally at mother's day. The purpose for it. How we as a society have failed it. How we can redeem it. I have been stewing over this for years until finally today I stumbled across the history of it.

I have grown tired of the kitchy posts or memes I see on the internet "share this if you love your mom" or inspirational posts about how great mom's are and "battle cries for all the work moms do and we deserve breakfast in bed on mother's day" or at the very least to pee in peace! Recently there was a post that went around about how much a mom should be paid if you classified all the duties she does and scaled her pay based on those jobs in the workforce. To me that actually demeans what a mom does because if she was in it for the money then, whoa, we have a problem.

Moms are so much more than that. Moms have a power and strength and resource to shape this world. IF we can stop fighting each other over homeschooling and breastfeeding and pinteresting and discipline, and potty training, and meal planning and stay at home vs. work place. Can we do it? Can we? Our children require us to do more than wipe their bums and clean their ears. We are more than yelling about homework, or fighting at the hockey rink. Aren't we more than "pick up your wet towels" and "don't hit your brother's penis" I want to be more than "you can't go outside till you eat all your supper"

Our (collectively here) OUR CHILDREN are being called into action for their community and we are their armery. I don't want this to sound like they are off to war, I mean that is exactly what Julia Ward Howe was trying to stop, but if our biggest concern in what kind of adults our children will become is more about getting a card on mother's day than our children leaving their mark for good on this world....

Oh the sweet irony

We left our honey in Port Moody.

So what? You say.

Our beautiful, liquid gold, wildflower, from a local orchard honey.

Ya, so?

I have been consuming this honey since my teen years. My parents first purchased it in 2 litre ice cream buckets. Then started getting it in gallon pails once we realized we were addicted to it. One year my dad came home with a 5 gallon pail! There is no other honey that I have tried that tastes like it. Not unlike wines, honey is affected by the environment it is produced in. I have had orange blossom honey from Atlanta, Georgia. Apple blossom honey from Abbotsford, BC. I have had clover honey and buckwheat honey and honey from a restaurant packet and honey from a tub in a common grocery store and let me tell you they all taste extremely different. But none are like my wildflower honey from Stuber's farm in Abbotsford. In the haste of the pack up and go for Brad and Carlon on their road trip adventure up north the honey bucket got left behind at my sister's.

Don't worry, the irony is not lost on me

The sweetness and unique-in-it's-make-up quality of honey can be so easily equated to our families can it not?
I love my family. Yes sometimes they drive me nuts but I still love them and currently am having a hard time releasing myself from the viscosity of the adhesiveness of my family. In other words I'm homesick. I've left my family..... my honey behind.

Hawk has found at least one honey producer up here and we'll give it a try. And I know there are lots of opportunities for more "families" for our little family. But it will be different. It's all so different.
My biscuits will taste different, my tea, my granola, my bread. All the things I use my honey for. And so my comfort level is affected, the ease, the warm blanket of familiarity and protection that comes with a family. With my family. Walking into my sister's house, kicking off our shoes, the boys running around chasing the dog, or running outside to jump on the trampoline. Hearing my niece (just barely) in her room playing her guitar, watching my other niece jumping with her cousins. Sitting in comfortable quietness with my big brother (in law) watching the hockey game, or whatever. Calling my other sister and chatting so quickly from the deepness of our hearts and knowing that even though we were separated by a 40 minute drive it would be nothing to make it happen. Jumping in the car to go to my parents to raid their garden and they want me to do it. My last drive through my old neighbourhood produced bittersweet tears. I broke my leg there, I rode my bike there, I sled down that hill, I got bit by a dog there, and all these houses for halloween.
It all went down so smooth and tasted so sweet.

So, now what. I have to leave that honey behind. I have to "set them aside" (words directly from my big sis's mouth as I squeezed her good-bye at the airport).

Ok, so I will taste the honey here. It won't be the same and it shouldn't be. It should be different, but it will still be sweet.

slay the dragon

last week....

   I am breathing. For a moment. It was/has not been a good day and I lay the blame squarely on the shoulders of PMS. Not too long ago a report came out saying that pms was basically bupkiss. Not real. A falsehood. Made up. All in our pretty little heads. Well, I'd like to show the writer of that report that my pretty little head is incapable of coping with anything once a month.
   It all went downhill the moment I woke up (not very promising as days go) and picked up speed. By the time breakfast was over I was like a loaded down rig with no brakes going down a hill. I wasn't even looking for a brake run out like they have on highways.
   Losing my grip is not my favourite pastime. I mean, I live by my feelings (just ask the ol' man) but I'm mostly low key. Just, don't wake the dragon 'k?
Well, Brad woke the dragon. But, let's face it, if he hadn't then it would have been one of the other super heroes I live with. Hell, it could have even been the coffee machine. I was primed to blaze. So the day went on. Brad took Carlon to school which left me to breathe fire on Noah and Iain.
not so great.
we went to a park.
didn't go so well.
we came home and all had naps.
Fire diffused, and Brad wisely went with my suggestion to get myself a coffee, park at Carlon's school and work on this crazy blog while waiting for his day to end.
And so I breathe... and confess my failures as a mom to all of you. Bleah
Sadly, confessing this inadequacy doesn't improve my outlook on my situation. It just magnifies the stupidity in which I handled myself.
And again I breathe...
and get perspective, drink coffee, work out the details of the blog, try to forgive myself, love myself, or, just be ok with myself.
Now I'm thinking about Carlon, and what he will be facing this month. Leaving school, leaving the only home he remembers, leaving cousins, aunties, uncles, grandparents, friends for a completely different turn on things and I want to bawl my eyes out. I lived in the same house my whole childhood. Birth to 27 *ahem...
My parents still live in that house. I have entered into a life where is is quite likely we will live in more than three houses by the time Iain is off to post secondary. I really try not to think about it because I can still barely wrap my brain around this upcoming move. So we will all be at a new address in less than 30 days from today! And I can't afford to let the dragon wake at all between now and ever again. Dragon needs to die for good.
Now all I can think about is Voyage of the Dawn Treader where Aslan scratches the sand to get Eustace back to himself.
But, it's more than that I think... isn't it?

Done.

Do you ever have those moments where you just can't? You've hit overload and have shut down emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually? You just feel numb. Not even that because then you'd be feeling. You just aren't responding to anything because you just can't.
I have been... assaulted ...it's the best word I can think of... with undesirables. Conflict, anger, independence assertion, tears, confusion, regret, hate, illness.
I am surrounded by littles that demand so much of me that I can't even go to the bathroom in peace. They act like I've disappeared into some black hole or swirling vortex. I can't go downstairs to get something from the garage without someone upset that I won't let them come with me. And if I hear one more person tell me "it's a season" and "I'll miss it when it's gone" I'm gonna kick 'em right in the berries.
This "season" of my life has been hard. So hard for me in fact that I have actually vocalized the desire to go back to the two weeks of hospital bed rest I experienced with our second pregnancy. Those two weeks were the most painful time of my life. Physically and emotionally. I basically was in labour for two weeks and seriously doubted my ability as a mom in a purely visceral sense.
So, why would I want to go back to that?
Because it had an end. You can be pregnant for only so long. 42 weeks. 43 if your doctor is sadistic. Even those two weeks, as exhausting as they were, came to an end.
This particular season I am currently in started two years ago. Two years! There has been little evidence of hope or peace for me. Friends have tried to help me see a bright side but I can't do it. I won't bore you with the list of "oh poor me" cause I know there are literally millions that have it worse and their season is a lifetime.
I am sure that there is an end in sight, I just can't see it right now and this is a problem. We have had a significant event occur in the last two weeks and it should make me excited or feel like things are coming to an end, but all I can see is an extension of the season. Kind of like what most of Canada has been dealing with this winter. Second and third winters to be precise. I am now entering into my third winter. I am hoping it is the last, that it is short, that the sun, when it shines will shine out all the clearer.
If you can't tell, I am tired. Tired of waiting, tired of hoping, tired of...everything. I'm even tired of being tired.
So now there is nothing. I can't even process and if I try it comes out with anger and tears. I am so incapable of expressing myself properly in the moment that I had to write my husband a letter after we'd had an argument.
So where does this leave me? I am..... I don't know. ...grasping at my faith like a cat that misjudged a jump.
I believe Lord.... help me in my unbelief