For as long as I can remember, I just knew I would one day grow up and have a family of my own. I always imagined daughters – always girls! – with names like Violet or Josephina or Anabella – the little dark-haired rosy-cheeked ghosts of my future, pink ribbons and pigtails and ponies. My very own mini-creations to love and nurture – my chance to change my legacy.
I put Violet aside as I chased my career, and then one day, hurriedly, there came the time to bring those ghosts to life. Time and time again of disappointment after courageously sticking needles in my stomach left me feeling robbed and broken. I would talk to my empty belly in the hopes that my pleading voice might persuade everything into normalcy. I bargained many times with a God who didn’t care. I’d glimpse little Violet running away from me, taunting me with a smile on her face – 'come catch me, Mommy!' And then one day everything disintegrated. Ending a marriage at 42 meant the ghosts of my picture-perfect family were forever exorcised. While it was undoubtedly the right thing to do on so many levels... all that remained of Violet was the echo of her voice. How ironic that she was already there, within me, but was never coming into the world. She was so close.
The agony, rage, and deepest sadness I felt toward the world as I cried in my bed in my little farmhouse, clutching my pillows with white knuckles, cursing God, tears pouring out of my face unstoppably while my cat snuggled up next to my dysfunctional belly. How unfair. How cruel. I knew that would never know unconditional love. Ever. Not only would I never feel those comforting arms around me, I’d never be able to embrace and provide comfort to my own baby, warm and soft lying on the skin above the very beating heart that loved it into being. The next day, forcing myself out of bed with gritty, disheveled composure, I’d tell myself that I didn’t really want or need it anyway, because there are other paths to happiness. Sure. The things we convince ourselves of when we can’t have what we want. What we need.
“Oh if you really wanted children, you’d find a way.” “Oh, you don’t really know what love is since you’ve never had children.” “Well, let me tell you how kids are…” “You’re such a great fur mom.” The sting of those comments never fade. Nothing can replace the child that you couldn’t make.
People mistakenly assume that because I couldn’t have children that I will settle for anything, but no, it doesn’t quite work like that. I do love all of my friends and family as much as I possibly can, but there forever remains a corner of my heart that is reserved for the Violet I never had. I still see her – five years old, walking across a field with a dandelion in her hand, late summer evening sky, a little smocked dress and tiny cowgirl boots… I see her again, graduating high school and proud of herself, long beautiful brown hair sparkling like her eyes. And there she is again, exhausted in a hospital bed, with tears of joy as she cradles her first. And I hold that one close to my heart as well and feel it all over again. Sweet Violet. Sweet girl.
It has taken many years of tearful nights and hard-earned insight, and here I find myself having managed to make it through another Mother’s Day. There is happiness and emptiness and gratitude all at once. I see and feel the sympathetic gestures that others make toward me, and it does bring me some comfort. I am lucky to be loved. More than anything, however, I have come to really appreciate the mothers who love their children, who cherish them as the gifts they truly are. That embrace, that warmth – that’s the stuff that makes the world go ‘round. Children are born of love, born innocent, born already loving you. They are the manifestation of love that this world needs more of. Be kind to them, hold them close. Cherish their little hearts because one day they’ll hold their own and think of you.
Happy Mother’s Day to you truly amazing women.