Mother’s Day has always been a odd day for me. Yes, I have a Mother. Two to be exact. I have the Mother who birthed me, and the Mother that raised me.

I was given up for adoption at birth and adopted as an infant. I don’t remember my time in foster care or any of that and in alot of ways I am extremely fortunate. So many kids get stuck in the system for years and years, I was one of the lucky ones.

I would like to find my birth Mother, but I don’t have any deep seeded emotional need to. Sure, it would be nice to have someone to blame the freckles, slow metabolism and ba-donk-a-donk on, but my reasons are a bit more logical, I just want my kiddies to have full medical history. I’m on a super huge waiting list to get my non-identifying info, but who knows how long that will take.

I’ll admit, there are times when I wonder about my BM(birth mom). She pops into my head on random occasions, sometimes at the oddest times. I guess the most common day would be my birthday for obvious reasons. I always wonder if she is thinking about me on that day and wondering about me. I wonder if I have siblings who look like me. Sometimes I look at C, who is my little clone…and wonder if I am someone’s “Mini-Me”.

There is one day though, that will stand out in my memory forever, that I thought about her, and cried for her, for me and for all Mothers.

That was the day of my son C’s birth. C is my first born child, and while I am not generally a emotional person overall, his birth got me. Right after he was born and they laid this tiny, yelling, red, angry little man on my chest…all I could think of was her. Did she even hold me? Did she mentally name me so she would have something to call me in her thoughts?

As I clung to C I couldn’t even imagine letting someone take him from me. I didn’t even want to let him go for a bath, let alone the idea of him being gone. I then really, for the first time in my life realized how hard that reallly must have been. You really can’t get it before you have children. You know it must have been hard…but you can’t understand the physical ache of wanting to hold your baby. Having to recover from a birth and all the pain that comes with it…with no happy ending waiting.

This is something that has been floating around online, I don’t know the author:

“This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, “It’s OK honey, Mommy’s here.” Who walk around the house all night with their babies when they keep crying and won’t stop. This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse. For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who DON’T. This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they’ll never see. And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes. This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at football or soccer games Friday night instead of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked, “Did you see me?” they could say, “Of course, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” and mean it. This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet like a tired 2-year old who wants ice cream before dinner. This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn’t. For all the mothers who read “Goodnight, Moon” twice a night for a year. And then read it again. “Just one more time.” This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead. This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot. This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls “Mom?” in a crowd, even though they know their own off spring are at home. This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to school with stomach aches, assuring them they’d be just FINE once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up. Right away. This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can’t find the words to reach them. For all the mothers who bite their lips sometimes until they bleed – when their 14 year olds dye their hair green. What makes a good Mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time? Or is it heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time? The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 A.M. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby? The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying? For all the mothers of the victims of all these school shootings, and the mothers of those who did the shooting. For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely. This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children’s graves. This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning to let go. For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money, mothers without. This is for you all. So hang in there.”

Happy Mother’s Day!