reclaiming mother's day

Honoring Absent Moms

Each spring I receive emails from a handful of merchants acknowledging that Mother's Day can be a difficult time for those of us who have lost our moms, merchants who then present me the choice to opt out of Mother's Day offers. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't, because, let's face it: it isn't their sale notifications that remind me of my mother's absence in the world. The days do that well enough on their own. For a long time after my mom's very sudden and unexpected passing, I still raced to my email after work to see what, if any, stories she'd sent that day, to jot down my own to send to her, only to feel the cracks in my heart broaden as reality slammed into my chest...again and again. We'd lived thousands of miles apart, but these regular connections had kept us close, even closer than when we'd resided under the same roof. We'd supported and encouraged one another. We'd made each other laugh. We'd ascended beyond mother and daughter. We'd become the best of friends.

My sister, my mom, and me.

No. I don't need need marketing mailers to remind me. Over four years later, I still feel my mom's absence every moment; I still think of her throughout every day too. For me, Mother's Day isn't harder than any other day of the year. It's merely another annual occasion that I regret we won't share, alongside a heap of 364 others. Though I have, in the last couple years, learned to live with it, to cope in ways that allow me to rejoice in who she was without descending into sobs, there is a shadow of my initial shock, a persistent ache in my heart that I doubt will ever leave me. Unlike those first years when I feared the grief might wholly consume me, that ache now exists side by side with my gratitude for what I had. One need only read the news (or chat with others) to grasp that not everyone has the good fortune of a truly good mom. I was lucky. I'd been brought into the world by a creative, nurturing, generous, and kindhearted soul. This is what I must remember, what I must hold close to my heart. This is why, in 2024, I have reclaimed Mother's Day with a new tradition: honoring a mom who is no longer here. I hope this story may inspire others who have suffered a similarly profound loss to do the same. There is a cathartic comfort in such an act that transcends these merchants' efforts to help me forget. I don't want to forget. I shouldn't forget. My mom deserves so much better than that. And there are only two people in the world--my sister and myself--who can truly honor her as the mom she was and feel it down to the marrow of our bones that these gestures would have brought her great happiness. Knowing that makes me happy too.

Recently my family embarked on a deep closet excavation, a precursor to spring cleaning. Part of the plan was to purge things we no longer needed, but mostly the goal was to repackage what was stored there for better protection against the Northwest's damp, mold-inspiring climate. Many of the boxes were filled to the brim with nostalgia, the most anticipated of which was a stuffed toy my mom had made for me when I was a toddler. I remember the day vividly. Not quite three years old, I sat on shag green carpet at Mom's feet. After reading me a story about Harry the Dirty Dog, she'd gently plopped me down there, then picked up her latest sewing project. At her request, I promised not to peek. I kept myself entertained as Mom carefully secured the final features. From the nearby stereo cabinet, Stevie Wonder crooned You Are the Sunshine of My Life. Mom periodically sang along, reaching down to lovingly stroke my hair every time she got to you are the apple of my eye. Though I would later learn she'd once been a member of her school glee club, this was the only time in my life I'd ever heard my mother sing. When she was ready, I climbed back up on the sofa next to her, and she gave me Bunny, a floppy white rabbit with a fluffy tail, a pink nose and heart, aqua-lined ears and eyes, and an aqua bow around her neck. Grinning from ear to ear and bouncing gleefully, I hugged that bunny with all my might. Even at such a young age, I understood that my mother had molded and stuffed and threaded her love into this toy, and I loved Bunny instantly because of it.

That moment, just Mom and me, is my fondest childhood memory. I was giddy and happy and felt so deeply, wholly loved. Bunny might have felt the same, but she was in for a rough road ahead. I slept with her in my bed. I carried her everywhere. When we traveled three hours to visit my grandparents, Bunny came too. And when those hilly highways made me violently carsick, Bunny, sadly, did not escape the effects. Still, even those dark stains did nothing to extinguish my devotion to my constant companion.

Fast-forward many decades later.

The stuffed bunny rescued from storage was no longer white. She flaunted a dingy beige shade of fur with some noticeably dark brown areas that instantly reminded me of nauseatingly hilly roads. Her fluffy tail flopped from side to side, barely clinging to the toy with the aid of a safety pin. One leg had been nearly torn free, not from malicious abuse, mind you, but she had been hauled around for years in little fists and rolled over throughout countless nights. In other words, she'd been adored to within an inch of her life. The satin lining in her ears had faded from aqua to a soft green; the color around her eyes had been similarly altered with time. And the felt pink nose and heart had slightly yellowed and rubbed away at the centers. As for the bow, its color had faded too, except for its own splash of vomit stain which had endured with all the resilience of a cockroach. Bunny looked--well, kind of gross. But I still loved her. This toy, this enduring piece of my mother's heart, I realized, would be the perfect way to honor Mom this year. As her love for me guided her hands through every stitch, my love for her would restore what she had put so much time and effort into making over fifty years ago.

Pretty eww, indeed, but that’s the same foot after using Bronner’s, a clean that exceeded my wildest hopes.

I did not believe this toy would survive a spin in the washing machine, not even after I'd reattached both the tail and one nearly severed limb. Gingerly, meticulously, with a diluted rag of Dr. Bronner's Pure Castile Liquid Soap, I hand-cleaned her from head to toe, allowing her a couple of days to thoroughly dry. I then refashioned the French-knot highlights in her eyes that had come undone and cut a new nose and new heart from pink felt to stitch over the old frayed and torn pieces. I did nothing about the faded color of the rabbit's ears and eyes as I did not wish to undo my mother's own needlework. Their soft green coloring is simply a part of Bunny now the way the gray hairs at my temples are a part of me. Bunny's heart--like mine, coincidentally--may have needed mending, but the rest of her will be left to age gracefully. Bunny's bow, alas, could not be cleaned. Its faded hue didn't bother me (it looked delightfully vintage), but when I untied it with the intent of lightening the dark stain, the ribbon promptly snapped in two from age deterioration. New grosgrain ribbon was ordered in a color and size as close to the original as I could get, and her bow, too, was soon replaced.

Bunny now and Bunny then with her own best friend…that would be yours truly (a very, very long time ago).

It's funny how big this plush pal seemed when I was so little. Now she looks so small, yet no less precious. If Mom could see Bunny's sparkling clean white fur, her bright new heart and bow, she'd be pleased. I know it. She'd remember how much I'd always loved this toy, how much I'd always loved her. She'd understand that this was my gift to her, that its worth is far greater than flowers or chocolates, potted plants or jewelry. It says: You were loved. You were appreciated. The things you did mattered. And every one of these statements will always be true.

My mom.

In 2025, instead of hiding from retailers, of opting out, instead of trying to forget, I'll find another new way to honor Mom. Perhaps I'll plant her beloved daisies or spend the day in the kind of place she most enjoyed, taking lots of pictures. Perhaps I'll donate to one of the causes to which she'd dedicated so much of her time or make a scrapbook of a special memory. Maybe I'll write a story just for her, something that would have made her giggle. Maybe I'll paint a birdhouse in colors she loved or bake one of her favorite recipes. Or maybe next year I'll be strong enough to resume the genealogy research we'd delved into together. All I know is that I won't be crawling into a hole with a blindfold over my eyes and hands over my ears, pretending that Mother's Day isn't here. It is. Every year it comes, oblivious to the struggles I've faced since grief planted its steadfast flag. And my mother, she was a beautiful human being, the most important influence in my life. For as long as her daughters are here to remember, that is a fact worth celebrating every day, worth honoring in any way that we can.

From Bunny and me and my dear family, Happy Mother's Day to good moms everywhere...past, present, and future. (Though it probably goes without saying, that goes for dedicated dog moms too.)