Mother’s Day 2018. This year, happily, I did NOT forget to call my mom and I even remembered to send a basket of succulents (her favorite kind of plant) to her (see blog from one year ago today!). I’ll be celebrating myself a bit later when a friend and I take our daughters to see Mamma Mia at a local theatrical production (hence the blog title!).

As usual, however, it is a day of melancholy for me (and so many others). Being apart from family is very difficult on every holiday that passes. It has become our normal, but logging on to social media and seeing 500-ish friends posting about spending time with their moms still makes me sad. I know that I have friends, too, whose moms live in the same town as they do and yet for whatever reason, they aren’t a part of their lives. I am aware things could be worse. But I’m also a big believer in relativity; namely, what’s miserable to me is my misery. I own it, which is to say it is no better or no worse than anyone else’s. It’s just mine.

You may recall that when I last blogged, my biological grandpa had just passed away. Since that time, I have attended the funeral amidst much apprehension on my part on how it would go. Specifically, how things would go between me and S, my biological mother. You will be pleasantly surprised, reader, that things couldn’t really have gone any better. Considering it was a highly emotionally charged event, with the possibility for catastrophe ever present. Not only was there no catastrophe, there was somewhat of a miracle.

When I pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home, I sat for a few moments before getting out of my car. I wasn’t early for the wake like I had planned on being, and I really didn’t want to walk in alone. Soon that worry disappeared, when my cousin Carole poked her head in my car window. She was the perfect person to walk in with me, and I immediately felt better. Still, when we walked in the hall was already filled with people, most of whom were strangers to me. A handful I had met once or twice, and even fewer could I say that I really “knew”. My Uncle T interrupted the conversation he was having to welcome me with a warm hug. Out of the corner of my eye, I recognized my biological mother chatting with people. I didn’t know if she had seen me, yet. Just a few moments passed and I decided to stop prolonging the inevitable, and I went up to her. She opened her arms to be and we embraced, with the same warmth as my uncle and I had shared a few minutes before. She thanked me for coming, and expressed how glad she was that her Dad/my Grandpa was no longer suffering. I told her that I, too, was thankful on both points.

Now here’s where the kind-of miracle occurred. My second cousin was close by, and S introduced me to her. I was fairly certain I had met her once before, but it would have been over ten years earlier when she was a child. So we shook hands as though meeting for the first time. Then S leaned towards my cousin and said: “This is my daughter.” Outwardly, I continued to smile and nod as though this was the most normal thing she could have possibly said. Inwardly, I freaked out a bit. She introduced me that way to at least one other person (perhaps my cousin’s sister; I wish I could recall). But my other cousin (I have a LOT), C, was standing there when S made the introduction. The moment was not lost on her (C is an old soul, and we are so alike in many ways. I felt an instant kinship with her when we re-met as adults). C then proceeds to tell her Dad, my Uncle B, what had just happened. Uncle B was understandably in shock. B and my Aunt C had been instrumental in the early days of my reunion, and tried very hard to welcome me into the family. They tried even harder to get S to “come around” but it was difficult. I have never forgotten their kindness and love that they showed me. Uncle B seemed so excited. I was cautious. I hesitate to even write “cautiously optimistic” because, as so often with adoptees, you just have no idea what the future holds. It was very sweet to see him so happy, though…especially at such a sad occasion.

The wake went just fine, if a bit surreal. When we all went outside for a 21 gun salute from the VFW, I was brought “up front to be with the family”, which was very nice. I had a few aunts in front of me and several family members directly behind me who were openly sobbing, and that was the first and only time I got emotional. It was a strange dichotomy to be witnessing other’s grief in saying goodbye to a father figure they had known for 30-40-50-70 years, while at the same time being a granddaughter who didn’t have many memories with him at all and only being a memory in his life for 12-13 years. But I heard more than once about how proud he was of me and how much he loved me. And that makes me teary, even now. After the service we moved to a pub (in true Irish fashion; it was, after all, a wake) and spend the afternoon toasting his memory. I didn’t spend a lot more time with my biological mother that day, although I wanted to. Somehow our timing is never quite right. Still, I was encouraged by her words and the kindness of so many others that day. I do feel as though I belong to that family, in whatever strange shape that may take.

But there will be no phone call or visit today to my biological mother, which is okay. I came away from that weekend with the resolve to make it back to that small northern town more often, because all of my maternal biological side lives there. I need to bring my kids, too, so they learn all about the Irish side and can make their own memories. In 5 weeks we will head to Ireland to being that process.

Mother’s Day can be complicated for me. But I am more at peace this year than I have been in a long time. Slainte.