It’s was Mother’s Day yesterday. My phone vibrated non-stop since early morning – girlfriends were sending me Mother’s Day messages, with photos of flowers and the joy of motherhood. My second son sent a disappearing instagram message from Iceland which disappeared before I even knew what was going on. He’s away and I am glad he thought of me.
A friend posted on Facebook that she already had the best Mother’s Day gift: her children are healthy and happy. Another declared she doesn’t want any flowers nor cakes, just kind children. I salute them for being so unconditional with their maternal love. I wish I m like them.
This morning, day after Mother’s Day, I found three stalks of silk carnations strewn on the dining table, the same stalks I’ve seen sticking out of my youngest son’s school bag. Since he had wished me verbally yesterday morning, I had assumed the flowers were meant for someone else. So when he came down for breakfast this morning, I asked what are those flowers. For many times, I find discarded stuff from my children on the dining table, waiting for me to either keep, dispose, or recycle. He said in the usual flippant manner that they were for me. And no, they were neither presented to me nor handed over despite being a day late. If you are not a mother, then imagine seeing roses on the dining table after Valentine’s Day while your lover has his breakfast and replies that the roses are for you, only he forgot to give you for Valentine’s.
My first thought was that he wanted me to dispose or recycle the flowers, and I didn’t want them. To know that they’re for me made me weep with sadness. It made my motherhood so pathetic.
My classmate-chatgroup have deemed me ungrateful, for many mothers don’t even get any acknowledgement. They want me to see how blessed I am, late or otherwise.
I am still navigating the misty path of gratitude ahead, trying to hold on to my stalks of silk carnations.