And so it is Mothers' Day.
A couple of sweet and thoughtful friends have written in the last couple of days to check on me and to pre-emptively say they knew this day would be really hard for me. Strangely, it is no worse than any other. Maybe it's because I have never really gotten too excited about this "holiday." Maybe it's because I was still so new to the idea of thinking of myself as a mother. I don't know.
Today I will wake up with Ivan and Darius.
We will wipe away the crust from our eyes and brush our teeth.
We will drink coffee and milk, respectively, and I will make sure Darius ingests some sort of fruit along with his breakfast cereal.
Today we will admire yesterday's sidewalk chalk drawings (A volcano! That is erupting! Onto the playground! Next to the rainbow!) and re-visit the lopsided hopscotch board I created for surprisingly endless hours of entertainment on the part of Darius.
We will toast bread and eat the egg salad I prepared last night, and I will attempt to convince Darius that eggs are neither yucky nor smelly (even though I kind of think they are myself).
We will paint pictures and pick flowers, and we will send him home with gifts for his own mother for Mothers' Day.
Today I will open my bedroom drawer and check on my child's ashes in the terrible little white plastic box the funeral home returned her in.
And I will go on.