I have to be honest, Mother's Day this year came and went with not much of anything, good or bad. I had to work all day, and Mike made me breakfast. That was it. Bacon and an 8 hour shift. I received and gave cards, phone calls, texts. But I didn't feel like it was a special day.

And that's okay. I think that since my first MD, just a few short weeks after losing our daughter, it's just a day I'd rather skip over. That may sound harsh, because I am, in fact, a mom. I have been since I heard my Charlotte's heart beating. Since I saw it fluttering at 8 weeks. And, of course, I have a mom. A good mom. A mom who was a much better mom when I was 3 than I am to my 3 year old. I look at pictures of myself and my older sister, and our hair was always done. Our clothes were clean. We ate 3 meals a day (at the table, as a family.) We learned our letters and numbers before we went to kindergarten, and we played outside until it got dark. Don't get me wrong, I am a good mom. Maybe an above-average mom by today's standards. My girl tells me (and total strangers) that we are best friends. She tells me "I love you, mommy," without being prompted. She knows her numbers, to 20. And most of her letters. But she watches more tv than she should, because mommy is on the computer. And her hair is almost never "done." (But lets go ahead and blame that on the fact that she hates to have her hair combed. And okay, I will admit it, I'm crap at hairstyles.)

I think it didn't even occur to me that Mother's Day came and went and is over. And that I ignored it. I don't really dwell on my first MD, when I spent all day literally locked in my bedroom, alone and crying. I was a mom and no one dared call me. I was a mom but I didn't have a baby. I was a mom but no one needed me. My sisters and my mom gave me my beautiful mother's ring. A teeny, tiny gold ring with a dark purple amethyst. What I wouldn't give to find it in a pocket of an old purse..

But I guess my point is, I maybe feel a little bit like I push past this holiday now. I jump over it like a puddle. The other side is safer. The other side is dishes and laundry and Facebook, and not a day when I have to face the missing daughter that I try not to miss so much.

That makes me a liar. I miss her too much already. But then I read a babylost blog, or I talk to someone who visits her son's grave every day. And I feel that I am lacking. That I do not hurt enough. That I am too busy hopping over puddles to notice that my feet are wet anyway.

But sometimes I do notice. It's been raining for 3 days and not a rainbow in sight. Before I lost Charlotte (and really, because we lost Laura,) I never would have noticed. (by the way- did you know that after you lose a baby, your next child is called a "Rainbow Baby"?)

I don't talk about her every day. I don't cry every day. Sometimes I feel like she's already slipped away. That she was a part of a different, past life. That what I have now is everything. It makes me feel like a demon- feeling like I have a good life. How is life good, when you buried your child? When you had to sit at a table and choose a casket to bury the daughter you had been choosing clothing for just a week before. How can anything ever be okay again when you sat in the hospital and let a stranger take your baby away, without taking pictures of her, without dressing her, without seeing her eyes and hearing her cry?

And then Sophia sits next to me on the couch and asks me to read her a book. And that book turns into 3 books. And those books turn into a giggle fest because she called a hamster a lobster. And then it suddenly doesn't matter that I hate mother's day. She is more than a distraction. She is my best friend, my co-conspirator. And then today is just another day on the way to tomorrow.