A Motherly Kind of Love

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I thought it would be Mother’s Day. That’s the day I thought I’d miss her the most, the day I’d be mostly acutely aware of the void, the gaping hole, in my world. Eight months after saying goodbye, I am feeling stronger in general. But I brace myself when I see one of “those days” approaching (that’s actually pretty funny, because most of “those days” can’t be seen coming). Regardless, I have been bracing for Mother’s Day…even bracing for Easter. I should have known, though, it would be birthday week…my birthday week…when it would really strike.

Being a mother myself, I should have known. When my boys have a birthday, I am the one that most remembers their day-of-birth! The moments and hours leading up to their grand entrance. The culmination of nine months of growing, planning, anticipating. Now, when their birthday rolls around, they are the ones filled with anticipation about the fun and excitement and I’m the one filled with memories and thankfulness. It’s been another year filled with the privilege of being their mom. Thank you, God. Even if they don’t understand it, or even realize it, their birthday is my day, too! Moms know this.

So now, as my birthday approaches, my mind keeps scooting closer to the memory of her, my own precious mother. The one person who rejoiced – more than me! – on the first day of spring. Every year. March 20. My birthday. My day, her day, our day.

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