Surviving Mother’s Day when it feels like everyone has a child but you.

I’m really sorry. What I’m about to write sounds bitter. But it’s something I’ve been living with for years – as have most of the people taking the time to read this. So, apologies if this offends anyone but it’s how I feel.

Mother’s Day – a day when the nation rejoices, joining in celebration to recognise the oft-thankless task that is raising children. Once, it was about me making the obligatory fuss over my own mother until, six years ago, it changed forever. It became a day of hiding and shame. I couldn’t have a baby. My babies were lost. The deep, maternal yearning that I felt was unfulfilled and Mother’s Day became the most dreaded day of the year.

Is it the same for people who have lost their beloved mothers? I know it’s not dissimilar to being single on Valentine’s Day – no-one wants it rammed in your face that the rest of the world is in a club that we just can’t join. Are we simply enduring days like these just trying to put aside our deep and painful sense of loss?

A couple of years into my efforts to become a parent, after multiple losses, it all just got too much. I felt suffocated; shrouded in other women’s happiness and apparent sense of completeness (according to social media at least). All those hearts and flowers, home-made cards, cobbled-together breakfasts-in-bed and the seeming sense of validation of their parenting prowess became just too much to bear. Because my babies were gone. And my chance of ever producing my own genetic baby had gone too.

 

Social media was the first to go. Particularly Facebook. When you’re a childless woman in your 40s it stands to reason that lots of people in your social networks are not as challenged as you, ovary-wise; it started to feel like EVERYONE HAD CHILDREN BUT ME. So off Facebook I came in advance of Mother’s Day 2014 – a tough weaning process at first but, by the time September came around (when I feel equally bombarded by ‘child in new school uniform’ doorstep photos), I realised how liberated I felt, being free from the urge to compare myself to those who appeared to be more fortunate than me. (Instagram I can just about cope with – after all, it’s much less conspicuous to unfollow or mute people!).

My lovely mum. Definitely a reason to celebrate!

Choosing to continue the tradition of focusing on my own glorious mum on Mother’s Day, each year I (internally) developed new coping strategies and an even thicker skin when, really, all I wanted to do was hide under my duvet in the dark until it was all over. I’d make a concerted effort to make a fuss of my own mother – but secretly be crying inside whilst, over the years, sitting in an array of gastropubs having a ‘nice family lunch’ surrounded by other families jostling for space around high chairs and prams. There was no high chair at our table.

And, except for one friend, NO-ONE EVER NOTICED (or, at least, no-one ever said they did); that this must be a hideous day for someone whose babies were gone. And we don’t talk about it either; we don’t want to spoil other people’s fun.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t resent other women who have managed the feat of motherhood with significantly less effort than I’ve had to put in. I’m happy for my friends with children whom I adore. I know they probably never said anything for fear of appearing smug, insensitive or patronising. But Mother’s Day is upon us, it makes me feel inadequate and I JUST WANT TO SAY IT OUT LOUD.

After six years of battling immense grief and hopelessness, I’m lucky. I finally have a baby on the way. The outside world doesn’t know what I’ve been through to get here, or that my bump is courtesy of another incredible woman - my egg-donor. I’m interested to see how I fare this Mother’s Day because, on the face of it, I’m ‘joining the club’. Except, I question if it will ever feel the same for me. I’ll always be conscious that my happiness is compounding another woman’s pain. My joy will contribute to other people’s sense of loss. For the same reason that I absolutely refuse to walk around cradling my new baby bump, I hope that, this time next year (and every year from now on), I will take time to remember what it felt like to be childless on Mother’s Day and try my hardest to refrain from a lack of self-awareness that makes other women like me take to their duvet for the day.

Let’s revisit this in a year’s time and see how I get on.

In the meantime, here are my tips for surviving Mother’s Day.

1. Bin off social media. You don’t need it in your life right now – and, if it’s completely unavoidable, remember that behind every polished, edited picture or video of ‘the perfect life’ there’s probably a heap of hidden imperfections – everyone has their crosses to bear!
2. If you are able, focus on your own mother. Doing something nice for someone else is a great replacement for negative energy
3. Avoid places where parenthood is just ‘in your face’. Cocktails anyone?!
4. Turn Mother’s Day into Other’s Day. Stick with your other non-parent friends – celebrate the fact that you can do lots of amazing other things – go spend your hard earned disposable income on something frivolous and self-indulgent!
5. Don’t let bitterness become the new norm. It’s easy to get carried away with the ‘woe is me’. I know, I’ve been there. But I’ve tried hard to stay positive and try not to become a hater to anyone who I perceive to be ‘happier’ than I am
6. Tell people how you feel. If you just don’t want to do something – don’t do it. In my experience, people understand more than you think – they just feel awkward about how to act sensitively around you. These are people that love you and don’t want to see you hurting

Thanks for sticking with me - see you on the other side!