As a mother, I have been an honoree for 35 years on Mother's Day. Six years ago, on Mother's Day, I was sitting down here in Mexico trying to convince it would be okay if my kids didn't call me. "After all, it's so hard to get hold of me," I told myself, even though there was email and facebook and the myriad of phone #'s I'd given them. In truth, I knew that my relationship with my children was cracked, had been cracked for a long time, like a chasm in the earth that develops into an unbreachable canyon. My boys on one side. Me and my drinking on the other.
At one point during that day, I asked myself, "When did it become acceptable that my children might not call me on Mother's Day? When did I become this mother that her children might not call? Why did I let that happen?"
I made a vow right then, that no matter what happened, that would be the last Mother's Day I would let my drinking come between me and my kids. I would start building a bridge across that canyon. If they welcomed me when I got to the other side, or not, at least I'd built the bridge.
This is the facebook post my middle son-the one that became my son at the age of 7 when his natural mother, my sister-in-law, was killed in a fire-posted yesterday: