Mudder's Day

I received a very early Mudder's Day gift from my little Mr. Kick Split Kick (Cause I'm 50! 50 years old! Tell me someone remembers that SNL skit?)

It was right around 2:30am. I was in blissful dreamland. Because obviously pregnancy dreams are blissful and dreamlandy. If blissful = the craziest ass shit you've ever dreamt about in your life, then yes.

I was jolted awake out of my Tex.as Chains.aw Massacre dream with a calf cramp that I can only describe as... no I can't. I can't even describe it.

I grabbed K like a hyena on a butterball screaming and flailing in total hysteria.



As utterly ridiculous as that was, the significance of Mudder's Day is not lost on me. I know it's a day that just twists the knife for many. I know the twist of that knife because I've felt it before. And I still feel it.

It seemed like everyone at work, and even some family (who will remain nameless), went out of their way to wish me a Happy 1st Mother's Day. Which is so nice and thoughtful, but it brings back the ache. And I want to say, "This isn't my first Mother's Day!"

But I didn't. Why? Maybe I wanted to avoid the pitiful exchange and the "I'm sorry's". Maybe I didn't want to make people feel bad when they had good intentions. Maybe I couldn't bear to talk about it.

I hate Mother's Day. Because I've been through IF (in a mild way compared to many of you). And I know the hurt that the day can bring. Going through IF, we have the reminder in our hearts every day of what we are or are not. Of what we do or don't have. But on this day, do we really need the world to rub that reminder in our faces too?

Fuck it. I say we rename the day National FMP. (Fuck Me Pumps, for the late comer). And every year, on said day, we treat ourselves to a new pair of FMP.

Let's all get a new pair of shoes, an iced cappucino and be done with it.