A different kind of Mother's Day

It was always such a bittersweet day, Mother's Day.

You never knew, of course, what day it was. Your busy little head full of other things.
But kind, thoughtful friends and family always made sure the day was marked.

A card with your signature scrawled across it,  guided by an adult hand. A bunch of spring flowers beautifully tied, or perhaps my favourites, yellow fuscias, in their plastic wrapping.

They'd be put into your hand and you would be gently prodded in the back with an eager, excited 'go on Thomas, give it to mum'.

You would walk across to me, in your puppet-like way, and nearly drop them somewhere in the vicinity before turning your attention elsewhere, so I had to grab them quickly. And I would be effusive and so pleased but it always made me sad that you didn't really care one way or the other.

Sometimes I would get such a lot of cards!
 In the early days, when it was just you and me, and my poor family didn't quite know what to do, different people would drop in a card just to make sure I got one: 'Thomas asked me to get you this,' they'd say.

And then, of course there'd be the card from school that you'd 'made yourself': folded card, green crayon stems and leaves and yellow tissue paper for daffodil petals.
Again, your messy 'Thomas' signature scrawled inside.

And I loved them and I treasure them. But each time it broke my heart because I wanted, wanted you to be able to do it all by yourself but you couldn't...and you never would be able to. And why were we pretending that this wasn't the case?

It was same with the pictures they sent home with you at the end of term. I know it was all from a teacher's hand. I know you'd have been bored to tears being made to faff about with felt or macaroni or crepe paper to make a collage of a tree or whatever. Creatively crafting was not your thing at all.

Now, a radiator and a wooden spoon to bang it with, that's more like it! A washing machine and something to clatter about inside it, now you're talking!

I hope this isn't making me seem ungrateful to the people who made the effort, for Mother's Day, on your behalf but I know they understand that the day made me a bit down. And they were sad too, behind their smiles. Sad for me, for you, appreciating that Mother's Day was difficult, different, not what it was supposed to be.

In truth though, every moment you 'cuddled in', every moment you giggled as I recited, off by heart, 'Room on the Broom', 'The Gruffalo', 'The Snail and the Whale', 'Bold Little Tiger', 'Chicken Licken', 'Monkey Puzzle' (my, what a repertoire!), was worth more than all the Mother's Day cards in the world to me.

Every time you said 'please' in Makaton sign language when I asked you if you wanted a sing-song, every time you sniggered as I made a bash at 'My Grandfather's Clock', 'Two Little Girls in Blue', 'Wouldn't it Be Loverrrly' and  'Moon River' (quite the virtuouso!), are moments so precious they were all the Mother's day presents I would ever need.

I still recite the stories, to make sure I don't forget. I still sing the songs too.

Now you're not here. And I'm in this new place, this new country, this new city, meeting new people. And I know I will have to face, so many times, 'The Question'. It's a question I dread, but I'm always braced for it - and I wait for it every time I'm introduced.

'Do you have children?' people ask.
And I breathe and smile and then I tell them. Smack 'em in the face with it, gently though.

 'I had a Thomas,' I say. 'But he died.'.

And I can see the horror appear in their eyes and how they want to back off, run away, take back the question, they want the earth to swallow them up, they flounder, they stammer and they genuinely don't know what to do.

I try make it easy for them, of course I do. I pre-empt them. I tell them it's ok, that I'm ok, that all is well and that they must, please, not worry. But then they ask your age, they ask how you died and they express astonishment and I feel so terribly guilty when I tell  them you had 'special needs', as if that explained your departure!

 I wish I didn't have to because sometimes I see them almost relax as if I've suggested, in that case, perhaps it's not so bad.

But I can't deny you. I was your mum. I still am your mum. And I would shout your name from the rooftops every day if I could.

And on this day, this day that caused me so much mixed-up stuff when you were alive, I remember, above all things, how lucky I was to have had you at all.