THE OTHER MOTHER'S DAY POST

This is the one that I hesitated posting.

This is the one that I'll get all those nasty comments on.

This is the one that I know you don't wanna read, but will read anyway 'cause you can't turn away from a hot mess anymore than I can engulf myself within it.

I didn't get to sleep late. I didn't get breakfast in bed. I didn't get to skip out on making everyone their two cups of leche before 7am. I still picked up around the house, and made dinner, and got their backpacks and lunches ready for tomorrow.

Because the thing is that there's no one else here to remind them what to do on a day like this. There's no one to whisper to them, "Let's let Mama sleep in." Or, "Let's surprise her with some yogurt and granola and a venti chai in bed." Or. "Let's make her homemade cookies or give her a pedicure or write her a song or yank up a flower, roots and all, and shove it into a vase that's two sizes too small."

And yes, of course I know I shouldn't feel so sorry for myself. And I don't -- on some level -- because I have two of the most amazing, brilliant, loving, healthy, strong, and beautiful children in the whole wide world. But I'm finding myself so jealous of those mothers who have a partner who order them to stay off their feet and rest today, who are cooked for and catered to all day long, who are pampered and wined and dined, who are lavished with attention and adoration and gratitude.

And that's not me.

That's not my life.

Me. I have to share. And it truly is one of the downsides of being in a lesbian relationship that I don't think a whole lot of gay mothers talk about. Sharing motherhood is not an easy thing. It's not even a natural thing. As women, as caretakers, as the cores of our families, we're naturally territorial. Naturally selfish of our brood. Naturally possessive and protective and mama bears through and through.

But there are two of us here. And not even here. Here and there. Our home and hers. And I don't want to have to share this day with anyone.

Because this is MY motherhood. Mine. And I know as I write this how horrible it must sound. Because yes, of course, this is also hers. Yes, of course, she's as much their mother as I am. Yes, of course, we made that decision together, and I don't and won't ever regret how quickly and easily we put those steps into place, so that there's never ever once in all their 7 years been a question about who she is to them.

But I don't want to have to concern myself with that anymore. Today, I don't feel like being a good partner, a good co-parent, a good friend, or even a good ex. She's opted out of this life with me. And that means that all those benefits of my being so understanding and sympathetic and considerate and giving go with it. Don't they?

Or do they?

Maybe they should.

And maybe they would.

For someone else.

As for me, of course I made sure they gave her the perfect gifts. The ones that would tear at her heart and jog her soul. The ones that would remind her, if only for a moment, how truly lucky she is today and every day from the moment they first drew breath. And so, yes, I make sure she always gets Mother's Days she never could've imagined. And yes, I always make sure she knows that this is just as much her day as it is mine.

But dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

THIS IS MY MOTHERHOOD, TOO.

...