Ghosts of Mother's Days Past

Or all the versions of motherhood I've lived

I’m six-years-old crafting the perfect hand drawn card for my mom. Without any money of my own, I cannot purchase a gift, but I can channel my love and appreciation for her into a card.

I doodle flowers and hearts and all the while dream about the day my own children will make me cards and maybe even cook me breakfast in bed. As far as I’m concerned, becoming a mom will be the pinnacle of adulthood. After all, I look to my own mom as the authority on everything, so moms must know all.

When I’m a mom, I think to myself, I’ll know I’ve really made it.

****

I’m 23-years-old sitting around a small cafe table with my fiancé and the pastor who will marry us in a few short months.

“This is a list of questions I ask all the couples I marry. Topics and ideas to discuss before you get married, so you know each other’s expectations”, he tells us.

The questions are relatively straight forward and topics, for the most part, we have already discussed.

“Who will take out the trash?”

“Luke.”

“Who will do most of the cooking?”

“Kelsey.”

“Who will do the laundry?”

“We will each do our own.”

“How many children do you want? Answer on the count of three. 1..2..3..”

At the same time my soon-to-be-husband answers “four”, I blurt out “zero.”

We all release some nervous laughter at the incongruence of our answers.

“Okay, you don’t have to settle this right now, but just know he said four and you said zero.”, the pastor warns.

If this question would have been posed the year before, our answers would not have shown such a disparity. But as it stands, I have spent the last five months witnessing the aftermath of my 15-year-old cousin being killed in a car wreck. Her mother was the driver.

I cannot imagine an agony more devastating than that of a mother losing her child. I cannot bear the havoc wreaked on the rest of the family in the wake of that loss.

I have decided, in an effort to shield myself from ever experiencing such blistering pain, to simply eliminate the source—if I never have children, I can never lose children. Problem solved.

I spend this Mother’s Day patting myself on the back for such foresight. Sure, I may never receive a handmade card or breakfast in bed, but that’s better than the alternative, right?

****

I’m 26-years-old unpacking an endless stream of boxes in our new house.

Both sets of parents are in town not only to celebrate Mother’s Day, but to help us settle in. With three empty guest bedrooms, we have plenty of space to spare.

Everyone spreads out and sets to work. Pots and pans to the kitchen. Books to the living room. Toiletries to the primary bathroom.

I open the door to the middle of the three upstairs bedrooms, ready to deposit a box of odds and ends into the closet, and pause.

What a perfect room for a nursery, I think to myself, wrestling a mixture of disappointment over what could have been and anticipation of what will someday be.

What could have been is the chemical pregnancy I experienced only a few months before. A pregnancy that took us by surprise. A pregnancy that was over before it even began. A pregnancy that unearthed the dream I had long since buried under fear. A pregnancy that led to this house, with room to grow. A pregnancy that led to the anticipation of future pregnancies to come. A pregnancy that brought to the forefront another desire I had placed on the back burner for many years—foster care.

I shove the box into the closet, shut the door, and continue unpacking while visions of children running down the stairs on Christmas morning dance in my head.

****

I’m 27-years-old sitting in a folding lawn chair in our backyard, sipping champagne at 2:00 in the afternoon. While the sun is bright, my spirits are not. This should have been my first foray into Mother’s Day, an almost-but-not-yet celebration. I should be 16 weeks pregnant. Instead, I find myself bleeding for the same amount of time I carried—eight and a half weeks.

My doctor didn’t seem too concerned about this timeline when I showed up at her office in tears, she only asked “are you sure you want one of those?” when we heard a baby crying from the next room.

I relish the burn of the champagne bubbles as they run down my throat. Closing my eyes, I will them to sear away the pain I cannot escape. Maybe if I keep sipping, they will at the very least give me a few hours of reprieve until this day ends.

****

I’m 28-years-old standing in front of my bathroom mirror, wiping my bloated stomach with an alcohol swap. The sensation of the cool sterile liquid on my skin signals to my body a prick is soon to follow.

I gingerly peel back the plastic casing ensconcing the Ovidrel shot I’m about to inject myself with and remove the cap off the needle. After a few flicks of my finger to release any air bubbles, I plunge the shot into my flesh. I withdraw the needle and a tiny trickle of blood appears as I work to unwrap a gauze pad.

“I cannot believe I just did that!”, I exclaim as Luke keeps the camera trained on my stomach.

One day we will show this video to our kids as evidence and say, “look at what mom went through in order to bring you into this world!”¹

But today, I simply apply gentle pressure to the injection site, gather the supplies, and make sure to safely lock up the sharps container in a childproof cabinet.

In just a matter of days, a social worker will come by for a home study to determine whether or not our home is fit for children.

If we’re lucky, in a few months we will become foster parents.

If we’re lucky, in nine months we will become biological parents.

If we’re lucky, this is my last Mother’s Day with empty arms.

****

I’m 29-years-old laying in the fetal position on my in-law’s guest bed.

We came to town the day before to tour our new home—a home we did not choose but was available during a last minute move. As we walked through the rooms, I felt my stomach turn flips. I didn’t know whether to attribute the unsettled sensation to the baby growing inside or the overwhelming scent of dog that lingered in the carpet fibers in nearly every room of the house².

It’s not supposed to be this way, I internally lamented as I glimpsed what would soon become my daughter’s nursery. Popcorn ceilings and dark grey walls were not at all what I had envisioned for this sacred space.

It’s not supposed to be this way, I cried when I realized, not for the first time, that there was no bedroom for our foster son of six months, who had left just weeks before and would not be joining us.

It’s not supposed to be this way, I sulked as I took in the sights and smells this house that was not the same one I had lovingly curated over the years to make my own.

It’s not supposed to be this way, I murmured as I heaved the contents of my stomach out once again into the trash can next to the bed.

Turns out the roiling feeling wasn’t due to the baby or the smell, bur rather a stomach bug so fierce, it has left me bedridden on what was once again supposed to be my almost-but-not-yet induction into Mother’s Day.

Luke opens the door to the dark room and slips a gift bag into my hands. I push through the nausea and delirium to unwrap its contents and muster a smile when I see the pendant with our daughter’s name inscribed hanging from a delicate gold chain.

The rest of the day I hold onto this tangible reminder of the promise of what is to come.

****

I’m 30-years-old walking into the church building with my eight-month-old baby on my hip. Of course on Mother’s Day we are wearing matching floral dresses, coordinating headbands and bows, and giant smiles plastered on our faces. We pass by the pastel colored photo backdrop when someone offers to take our picture. I beam as I hand them my phone.

For so many years, my title of not a mother prohibited from posing in front of this backdrop.

For so many years, I buried my hope that I would ever come to bear this title.

But today, not only do I see myself as a mother, but the world does, too.

Today, my daughter looks up to me with blue eyes that mirror my own and sees me not just as any mother, but as hers.

****

I’m 32-years-old gazing at the spread out pictures on my coffee table of the five embryos I lost over the past two years. Seeing them altogether like this takes my breath away.

I marvel at the kaleidoscope of cells, each one different from the next, and not for the first time mourn who these cells could have grown into.

Wiping the tears from my eyes, I collect the photos as my two-year-old, fresh from the bath and dressed in lime green footie pajamas, barrels toward me. I scoop her into my arms, nuzzle my nose into her newly washed hair, and drink in her scent.

She places the rhinestone encrusted cardboard Mother’s Day crown she made for me onto my head with glee. I happily accept the gift and squeeze her tight, feeling all at once like the luckiest and most bereft mom in the world.

****

I’m 33-years-old and to be honest, I don’t know how I’ll feel come Sunday.

Will I relish in the honor and joy and privilege it is to be my daughter’s mom?

Will I shed tears for the babies whose voices I never heard call me that name?

Will I wonder who the now five-year-old boy I loved as my own is honoring?

Will I grieve over and thank my body for all she has gone through to attempt to and actually bring life into this world?

Likely all of the above.

What I do know, regardless of waking up to a homemade card or breakfast in bed, is that I’ll think back to my six-year-old self and tell her yes, I really have made it.

1. If I only knew this would be the first of hundreds of shots I would be injected with over the coming years.

2. Yes, that included the bathroom 😵‍💫