The other day, my man and I dropped our almost-22 year old university graduate off at the airport, said our farewells at the curb and watched him walk into the terminal to board his one-way flight to Sydney, Australia. And just like I did after so many drop-offs, I got into the car and wept. Happy for him. Sad for me. Proud of him. And, to be honest, kind of proud of myself for raising such a brave and adventurous soul. When I was 22, I too boarded a one-way flight. Mine was to London, England for what was the beginning of a back and forth lifestyle until I returned to Toronto in time to celebrate my 31st birthday. 

I hate Mother’s Day. Like, really, really hate it. I always have. I hated it when I was young and childless and I truly abhorred it once I became a mother. I thought it was a fake holiday made for people who didn’t have a great relationship with their mothers. It felt like an excuse for the kid to acknowledge the mother “for a change”. But, for me, someone who spoke to her mom multiple times a day, hung out with her all the time, and – as an adult – made dinners/brunches for her on a regular basis, it was ridiculous. When my kids were little, I couldn’t understand why I, in the midst of “actively mothering” had to run around making plans/meals/reservations for the grandmothers. Shouldn’t Mother’s Day – if you had to celebrate it – be for the young moms in the trenches with their kids? Shouldn’t it be a day where we could NOT mother and just take some time for ourselves? I figured Mother’s Day should be for moms with kids 0-13 and then it should be over.