Back in my 20s, every second Sunday in May, my female friends and I would congratulate each other on “Thank God we’re not Mother’s Day.” For us that meant we’d managed to survive another year without an unplanned pregnancy. We were invincible. Youth and fertility forever! We never gave a moment’s thought to menopause. Ah, the days of blissful ignorance.
In my late 30s and early 40s, I still believed pregnancy was possible. All the tabloid stories were proof. Gina Davis got pregnant at 47 with twins, as did Holly Hunter. Around my 45th birthday, I nonchalantly mentioned this at a visit with my gynecologist and she matter-of-factly informed me that they most certainly used donor eggs. I was dumbfounded. You certainly don’t read about that in People Magazine. I’m not sure I heard much of what she said past that point. I wallowed in pre-menopausal grief, as it dawned on me that chances were the only eggs in left in my basket were the chocolate eggs from the Easter bunny.
Now, six weeks away from turning 50, I fantasize about actually experiencing Mother’s Day, as a mother. It is almost inconceivable (pun intended). I conjure images of dry toast and runny eggs appearing bedside with cheery daffodils from our yard, as I wipe the equally runny nose of my child. I imagine cute syrupy cards from my husband telling me how proud he is of me, mother to our child.
Each Mother’s Day that passes feels painfully empty to me, just as Valentine’s Day did during my long stint of singlehood. I just want to get it over with. Quickly.
Friends share the news of their ‘blessed events’ and bouncing bundles of baby love seem to pop up out of nowhere. I see little ones every place I look – at the gym, the grocery store or giggling as they run by on the sidewalk in front of our house. Facebook announcements reveal that my high school peers are welcoming grandchildren. And the truth is that I find it harder and harder to genuinely share their joy.
Finding love that would last the rest of my life took 46 years. Big Papa was worth the wait. I’m certain choices for a husband that I might have made, even ten years earlier, would not have been happy or lasting unions. I know he’ll knock it out of the park as a Dad. Every day, I count my lucky stars that I landed a keeper.
As an adoptive mom-to-be, I’ve heard over and over again, that the angst and grief will disappear the moment my child is placed snuggly in my arms. Adoptive mothers say that I will forget the agony of month after month spent waiting, just as women who give birth soon forget each painful contraction of labor. That’s what they tell me. All I can say is bring it on. I’m ready to celebrate Mother’s day, with a child to call my own.