Karen Mooney Lascher - Mother’s Day

 

 

It was Mother’s Day 2010, and I had gotten up and took a little bit of extra time getting ready that day, which was unusual for me. And went to church and then came home and got ready to celebrate with my family. This was a little bit odd in my life for two reasons. The first reason, was that I was in the restaurant business. I usually spent my Mother’s Day managing the celebrations of others, not celebrating myself. And the second reason was because, well, Mother’s Day was kind of muddy waters for me. 

 

You see, as far as the world knew, I had become a mother nine years earlier when I gave birth to my daughter. But in reality, when I was 23, on May 6th, 1987, I had given birth to a little girl. And for the few days after she was born, I held her oh so tightly, but not too tightly, because people tell you, “You can’t really form a bond,” as if a bond doesn’t exist between a mother and a child, as if I hadn’t carried her for nine months, as if I hadn’t talked to her for the last five months. As soon as I could feel her move, I talked to her every day. She was part of my life. We had a bond. 

 

But I followed their advice, and I would just come to the hospital a few times a day. Sometimes I would just look at her through the nursery, and sometimes I would hold her. She was born on Wednesday. And on Saturday, I came to the hospital and they gave me a little room, like a little private room, like an office kind of a thing. They set me in there, and the nurse came and brought my daughter to me. We sat in that room and I held her oh so tightly, and I wished her health, and happiness, and joy, and laughter, and a handsome prince, and grand adventures and everything that a mother wishes for her daughter and I said goodbye. 

 

And the next day was Mother’s Day. I went to my parents’ house to celebrate Mother’s Day with my mother. I put on a pretty good face, I think we all did, but at some point, I retreated to a bedroom and I laid down on a bed and I cried. No, I sobbed. I think it’s more like wailing, that deep within where I didn’t know pain could be so deep. 

 

On that same Mother’s Day, there was a young woman who had wailed those same wails for years, because she couldn’t have children. She came from a huge, large family. And on that Mother’s Day, she gathered with that huge, large family, all of them together and they welcomed this little girl into their family. She held that little girl. And in that moment, in the wake of her immeasurable grief, there was great joy and it was a great celebration. 

 

So, Mother’s Day was a little complex for me. But on this Mother’s Day, I was there with my husband and my daughter, and my parents were there, and a few of my siblings were coming later in the afternoon with their kids and we were having a celebration. There was this nervous excitement and anticipation in the room. The doorbell rang, and I went to the door, and I took a deep breath [inhales deeply] and I opened the door and the 23 year-old version of myself stood on the other side. She looked at me and she said, “Well, wow, I would sure know you were my mom if I saw you when walking down the street.” [audience laughter] 

 

We laughed and we cried. Her mother was there, had brought her. Her mother said to me, “On Mother’s Day, you gave me the greatest gift ever. And on this Mother’s Day, I wanted to give that gift to you.” And in all those years of grief, after all those years of grief, there was great joy. And it was a huge celebration.