For most people, today is just another Sunday in May. But not for me. Not for many of the incredible families I have come to know over the past five months. Today is not just another day; it is International Bereaved Mother’s Day.
It’s a complicated holiday, if ever there was one. Some women are offended by it, feeling it delegitimizes our claim to motherhood, recognizing us as different from normal mothers, when really, we are still just mothers. Others feel it does the opposite, giving our babies a day just to themselves, a day where they won’t be overshadowed by all the babies who get to grow up. For some women, it draws out the painful emotions surrounding Mother’s Day for an additional week, adding insult to injury. Others see it as a beautiful celebration, a day where we are allowed to stand together in solidarity, this tremendous community of strength, compassion, understanding, and fierce love and devotion to our children.
I didn’t know how to feel about it. I still don’t, really. Marc and I laughed last week about what the “proper” way to recognize this day would be for our family. Surely you don’t say Happy Bereaved Mother’s Day? Surely we don’t say we celebrate this day? Anyone who identifies with this day carries a pain in their heart like no other. I took the advice so many loss moms have offered me - don’t put expectations on yourself. Let the day be what it will be. Welcome what comes, and just feel whatever you feel.
After waking up in a funk, still unsure whether I wanted to give this day any attention, I decided to go on a hike. I do this every month on Reed’s birthday anniversary, and it felt right to honor him in a similar way today. I asked Marc to find a nearby place we could go, preferably with a creek, and he picked out a small trail in Clear Creek Canyon we thought might still be accessible. Instead, we drove up to find a massive construction project underway, and no access to the trail. Unfazed, we kept driving up the canyon, hoping to find a spot where we could pull off.
After driving for a while and giving up on one unsuccessful path that led under the highway and then stopped abruptly, we settled on a small trail used by rock climbers. We started to walk, the water rushing down below and the bright sun shining on us. Marc paused, and pointed to the birds - swallows - playing above us.
At first, I didn’t believe him. Swallows are one of my symbols for Reed, for a lot of reasons, many of which I’ve already forgotten. In early March, my sister got a small swallow tattoo in his honor. As my eyes followed his hand skyward, I saw them. A whole flock of swallows, looping, playing, and chittering excitedly. I laughed, delighted to see this symbol of Reed on a day when I really needed him.
As always, I know there are multiple explanations. Finding a flock of birds flying about on a beautiful spring morning is not exactly unusual. But it made me imagine Reed playing around with his friends somewhere. It made me think of this community of mothers to which I now belong - the most selfless, compassionate, full-hearted women I have ever met. It made me think of their sweet babies caring for my son the way they have welcomed me - without judgement or expectation. It made me smile, imagining my son and his friends fluttering around the world today, checking in on all the broken-hearted parents out there and giving them a brief reminder, a tiny reassurance. A gentle message, saying, Yes, I’m still here. I’m okay. I miss you, too.
We spent the rest of the day planting roses in Reed’s honor, sharing our favorite memories of him, and talking about how proud we are to be his parents. I found myself thinking differently about the purpose of Bereaved Mother’s Day. There are plenty of days ahead where I will be sure to defend my title as Reed’s mother, as a real mother, even to myself. Plenty of days where I will have to fight for him to be recognized as a part of our family. On Mother’s Day next weekend, I’m sure my heart will ache with renewed vigor as I think about all the moments I will never have with him and wonder about who this perfect little boy would have become. Today, I didn’t have to wonder. Today, I got to reflect and adore him just for the little boy he was, and is. I do that every day, of course...but today felt different. Today should have just been another forgettable Sunday in May. But it wasn’t. Instead, it was special, just like my Reed.
Maybe that’s what this day is all about. Not only for recognizing this hardest version of motherhood, or for feeling grateful that I have found other mothers who can guide me on this path. Maybe International Bereaved Mother's Day isn't really for recognizing the mother at all...but for celebrating our babies for exactly who they are, instead of grieving who they never got to be.
So to my fellow bereaved mothers out there - to those of you for whom today is not just another Sunday in May - I see you. I see your fierce devotion to your child, and I know that love is real, is whole, and is forever. May you find a moment of comfort today in remembering your sweet baby and loving them exactly as they are.