My hands have been typing for 5 hours today. Solid. When I was done, I’d written 9380 words for a grand total of 22 glorious pages. To be totally honest, I didn’t have to think up most of the words, they were already in pen in my notebook.
But it is Mother’s Day. And, as much as my own mother gets her day and her shout out, I’ve been thinking a lot more today about all the folks for whom Mother’s Day is a minefield.
1) A dear friend who only days ago had her mom’s funeral.
2) A mother whose college-age daughter passed less than 2 months ago.
3) A new mom who is celebrating her first Mother’s Day without her mom who passed when she was 17.
4) All the women who want to be moms but are pounding their fists against the wall of infertility.
So why the words you ask? Why the explosion of typing bonanza? Why risk my fingers falling off? What do these words have to do with the above people?
Simple. I’d been holding onto the words of #2’s daughter (my friend.) Hours of conversation, sharing and openness have been tucked away in my writing notebook. For weeks they have been talking to me (nagging me really, but I’m trying to be nice.)
“Hey, you need to share us with her mom…this will mean a lot to her.”
And there is nothing like the dead to prompt me into action.
So I text her mom…
Me: Would you like to have our early conversations? See the things she shared? Her answers to questions?
Her mom: Oh [insert my name] that would be wonderful!
And when I am tempted to apologize to her for how ridiculously long it is—22 pages? I mean really would it kill me to revise?? I warn her to get comfy before she sits down to read. I am tempted to warn her that—even though it is over text—that it is heavy. That her daughter says things like “I’m not dead yet.” But I don’t warn her. There’s nothing I could say that she hasn’t thought, heard or experienced in the last few years of this. Instead, I give her her daughter’s words—and with it, many of mine, many of my sharings—and hope that she finds it helpful and warming to the soul.