So let's talk about Mother's Day.
No, no, no! Don't leave! I don't want to talk about my kids making me breakfast in bed (god, no, please) or the cute cards they created from bits of construction paper and a marker from the junk drawer (we're long past those days) or about our fabulous takeout meal (the restaurant asked if we could please call back in an hour and a half... so we had frozen Ora Ida french fries and soup).
So, no, not that. Imma write about Facebook's Mother's Day.
I reallllllllly monitor how much time I spend on social media. I post rarely, and try to limit myself to ten or twenty minutes a day of scrolling. Even though I'm a grown-ass woman, I constantly wrestle with social media anxiety, which has me believe everyone is prettier, smarter, wiser, more wealthy, more accomplished, more good, more generous. I mean, seriously, guys: Everyone else is awesome and I suck. Or so says Facebook.
Thus the limits. I log in, scroll for a few minutes, and leave, before my mental stability has a chance to quiver.
But: Last Sunday, Mother's Day, I let myself go, because I couldn't not. I scrolled for the better part of a morning. Far from making me anxious and less-than, I felt caught in this perfectly perfect moment where the world came together to honor women who'd been mother figures to them. There were many stories of love, real love, grateful love, the kind of love where there aren't really words to adequately capture it. Not really. Not ever. Sooooo many people taking a moment and talking about Moms.
I know it wasn't everyone. Many people have painful pasts and heartbreaking Mom stories, and they were abstaining from the day's celebrations. I know. And some posts made my eyes pricker in tears, particularly from mothers who have lost a child. I saw a post of a friend who, a few years back, had sobbed into my neck after her daughter was killed in a senseless, stupid accident. "Losing a child is beyond anyone's pain tolerance," she wrote, describing a life lived with a hole in her soul. There were stories of a miscarriage—women honoring babies they never held. There were women who wanted to be mothers who can't, or aren't, or won't. They raised their hands, publicly: Don't forget us. We want to be mothers, but we can't. This is hard. Today is hard. And there were eulogies to lost mothers. I miss you every day, Mom. I wish you were here, Mom. Thank you for the gifts you gave before you left, Mom. What I wouldn't give to have you back, Mom.
I know it wasn't everyone. Many people have painful pasts and heartbreaking Mom stories, and they were abstaining from the day's celebrations. I know. And some posts made my eyes pricker in tears, particularly from mothers who have lost a child. I saw a post of a friend who, a few years back, had sobbed into my neck after her daughter was killed in a senseless, stupid accident. "Losing a child is beyond anyone's pain tolerance," she wrote, describing a life lived with a hole in her soul. There were stories of a miscarriage—women honoring babies they never held. There were women who wanted to be mothers who can't, or aren't, or won't. They raised their hands, publicly: Don't forget us. We want to be mothers, but we can't. This is hard. Today is hard. And there were eulogies to lost mothers. I miss you every day, Mom. I wish you were here, Mom. Thank you for the gifts you gave before you left, Mom. What I wouldn't give to have you back, Mom.
To balance out the sad, there were countless stories of ridiculously pure, simple love. Thank you, Mom. I love you, Mom. You're my best thing, Mom. And because we know other-daughter relationships are complicated, we can also know each story hid layers of hard times and fights and misery, but the posts showed forgiveness and grace, patience and understanding, healing and health.
And! The photographs! I studied them, pulling similarities between generations of women: A dimpled smile, a big nose, a head-thrown-back-in-laughter, hair color matched in a perfect shade, all caught by someone's camera in a still moment of uncanny likeness. "Oh, yes. That's definitely her mother," I would think, seeing my friends with their mothers or mothers with their daughters, caught in an embrace or sharing a moment in time.
And! The photographs! I studied them, pulling similarities between generations of women: A dimpled smile, a big nose, a head-thrown-back-in-laughter, hair color matched in a perfect shade, all caught by someone's camera in a still moment of uncanny likeness. "Oh, yes. That's definitely her mother," I would think, seeing my friends with their mothers or mothers with their daughters, caught in an embrace or sharing a moment in time.
Everyone has their own mother story, as varied as dandelions and their wishes. And for one untethered Sunday, I scrolled until I got a glimpse of all I could hold, filled up, again, with the touch that only a mother—and a day set aside for mothers—could bring. 
