Happy stinkin' Mother's Day

My mother made another cameo in my dreams last night. She does this every once in a while, always looking a bit different, but each time I can tell it's her.

We were shopping. All I remember is trying on a grey jumpsuit from Bebe (clearly nothing I would do in real life), and she tried on some other atrocity. She had shoulder-length curly hair and a round, smiling pink face, reminiscent of photos I've seen of her as a younger woman.

There's no mystery in why she's on my mind. Mother's Day is right around the corner, sneaking up on me like an impending storm cloud. Even before the ubiquitous commercials, billboards and magazine ads, I can feel it coming. But each year they show up to remind us all that it's a day to thank our mother and give her a giant hug and maybe a card and some flowers and show just how much she's our rock and our best friend - a day for me to yet again remember I don't have that.

My best friend's mother died on Mother's Day last year. How about that? In some ways, it seemed unspeakably cruel, but on the other it seemed like her final F you to cancer and even a conscious comfort to her daughters. As my friend put it: Now, they only really have one main day that f-ing sucks, while I for example have two: the day she died (right around Thanksgiving) and Mother's Day.

Each year, an overwhelming part of me is angry, resentful and bitter, wanting to give all those with moms a swift kick in the stomach and the insensitive advertisers a piece of my mind. But I do try desperately to temper that with positive memories of my own mother and keep in mind that I am so lucky to be her daughter, even if she was only alive for 11 years of it.

Fifteen years later, Mother's Day is still so hard, and my guess is it will always be hard. I remember one particularly tough one a few years ago when I just felt like my insides had been sucked out and every one around me was glowing with love and fullness. My two best girlfriends knew it, and they took me out to get wasted on margaritas, letting me tell random stories of my mom while tearing up at the restaurant table. For that, I'll always be thankful, and this time I owe them the drinks (especially considering one of them was said friend who's now in the Dead Moms Club).

So I might not have a mom to send daisies to, but I do have people around me that over the years have been there to fill me up - get me drunk when I need it.