The empty chair at the table feels more evident today than any other day so far.  We weren’t all together last year for Mother’s Day…Matt in Cambridge, John in Boulder, but I still got calls and texts, along with promises for a celebratory hike or adventure soon. When we were together next….

I’ve received my last Mother’s Day message from John. The four of us will not take another Mother’s Day hike. I am shattered and empty.

It’s a day that defines the context of my relationship with John.  I am his mother. He is my son…he was my son. I was his mother.  End of story.  Without me there would be no him.  Without him, Mother’s Day is a different kind of day.

By the time I celebrated my first Mother’s Day as a mother, I had survived twelve Mother’s Days without my own mother. In that window, I rationalized my despair declaring the day to be a “Hallmark Holiday”. But on MY first Mother’s Day, when we had Paul’s mom over for brunch and took photos with a chubby seven month old baby John, the day became the most important day of the year. I was a mom!

My parents, especially my mom, raised me to believe I could do anything, take on the world.  But I didn’t want to take on the world. I wanted to be a mom, though it wasn’t “cool” to say at the time.

After years of infertility issues, finally, baby John was on his way.  Everything was easy about my pregnancy and I loved being pregnant.  I almost couldn’t believe it.

Having a second boy made our family complete and we set off on our journey through life as a family.  And what adventures our family had.

I took motherhood seriously.  I stopped working when Matt was born.  I attended mothers groups, parenting classes, sibling classes.  Co-op pre-school, volunteer at the elementary school. I relished every bit of it.

Paul and I spent the week prior to this Mother’s Day at an insurance conference in Hawaii. Everything about our stay was spectacularly beautiful.  The weather, the scenery, the beach, the resort, the island in general.  Everything but the elevator.  In the framed box next to the elevator the flyer advertising the Mother’s Day brunch glared at me, making me cringe. I learned to take the stairs.

I intentionally booked our flight home on Mother’s Day. Trapped on an airplane, I could put on my headphones and pretend it’s just another day.  With the time difference, my Mother’s Day was three hours shorter.

We landed about dinner time.  I dropped Paul at the house and drove to pick up our dog, leaving Paul to organize dinner.  When I returned, the dining room table was filled with candlelight and flowers.  The two of us haven’t eaten dinner in the dining room since John died.  It’s too empty.  If he was alive, John would not have been here with us, but now, his empty chair is a massive presence.  A gasp, somewhere between surprise and a sob erupted when I saw the table set so festively, so thoughtfully.  Eyes filling with tears, Paul cried out, “You are the best mom.  You were the best mom. You deserve a Mother’s Day!” We are broken. We fall together trying to keep each other in one piece.

Beyond being sad about John dying, I’m mad. I’m so mad at him for leaving me, for leaving us.  I’m jealous too.  Jealous of my friends who get to hug their kids today.  And I’m really envious of those who have their moms AND their kids.  Dwelling on that spirals me into a pathetic mess of self-pity.  Layered onto Mothers Day is the beginning of graduation season.  John would not have graduated this year, as many of his friends are, but four years ago, as a high school senior, he had so many options, so many opportunities, so much hope surrounding him.  It’s hard not to think of what might have been if he had made different choices four years ago. Self doubt and self criticism sneaks in. What could we have done differently to change his path? Did we make critical mistakes?

I feel like I failed at motherhood.  I worked so hard at it, and it didn’t turn out like I wanted it to.  I want to kick the wall.  I want to scream and say it isn’t fair.  I want to shake my fist at the sky and say “Why did this happen to me, to us, to John?”  I want to rewind the world, go back in time and fix it, change it.  I want a re-do.

Motherhood is precious.  I’ve always known it,  but not the way I know it now.  If you’ve got it, celebrate it.  Big time. It’s not a Hallmark holiday. It’s definitely worth a celebration.