I know, Mother’s Day was six days ago, but honestly, I haven’t had it in me to write anything recently.
I’m a mother and I hate Mother’s Day. I know that sounds brutal and it doesn’t make sense. I had my first Mother’s Day three years ago.
It was supposed to be amazing. My first Mother’s day AND, even better, it was my BIRTHDAY. Growing up I always loved with my birthday fell on Mother’s Day because the year I was born, it was Mother’s Day. It doesn’t get much better than that. So my first Mother’s Day ever falling on my birthday was supposed to be magical.
But 2 and a half hours before that Mother’s Day began, my father died.
I was. I am my daddy’s girl. And to say that day was devastating would be such a drastic understatement. I don’t even remember much about that night other than getting into my husband’s truck (and forgetting my children, who were upstairs asleep. Thankfully, my husband remembered to get them). The drive took forever and no time at the same time.
My dad was dead before the paramedics even arrived.
I remember the next day, people wishing me a happy birthday on Facebook and every single notice made me angry. Didn’t people know my dad was dead? Well, no, they didn’t because I hadn’t said anything on Facebook. After I did, the happy birthday wishes ended and the sad “I can’t believe this happened on your birthday” posts started.
So now, I hate Mother’s day and I don’t like celebrating my birthday. Because both those things remind me of the single worst day of my life.