Excuse me, you seem to be missing a kid

I hate flowers. Now don't get me wrong. I love fluffy dandelions, fragrant roses, happy daises, and bright bougainvillea. But it's the occasion-flowers that I hate. Specifically, flowers for Mother's Day.

My husband came home today carrying a purple potted plant. Nestled in the tips of its green spears were three perfectly shaped magenta tulip flowers. Happy Woman's Day! he proudly declared as he dumped the pot down in my reluctant hands. But it's not Women's Day today, Women's Day was 10 days ago, I replied, somewhat confused and annoyed. 

They were giving them out in church, he clarified as he went off to find a plastic plate to put underneath the pot. I sat on the sofa, the pot growing heavier by the second, as he rummaged about in the kitchen cabinets. No plastic plate was to be found so he checked the window sill in the living room where a couple of empty potting pots were sitting on discarded plates. He grabbed the better looking one and set it on the coffee table, then plunked the tulip plant on top. 

After lunch, I opened up the family chat to look at the pictures he had shared with my mom, brother and sister. The whole church lobby had been decorated with flower pots, picture frames of children with their mothers, a huge banner announcing Global Children's Day, and an elaborate photo booth resplendent with oversized paper flowers, more potted plants, a low gray stool to sit on, and Happy Mother's Day spelled out in purple and blue cursive letters. 

It wasn't Women's Day, it was Mother's Day! I exclaimed to my husband. Yes, I know, but they were celebrating mothers, grandmothers, every woman. They said take a flower for every woman; there were plenty of extra left over.

He meant well, thinking of me, but he didn't know how it would make me feel. How could he, when the emotions that welled up inside were only understood by another woman? When I messaged my sister to express my frustration, she replied immediately. I would feel the same way. 

Sympathy flowers. When someone dies, we descend upon their family in hordes, carrying awkwardly a pot of varying sizes, and shove aforesaid pot into their hands along with some mumbled words of condolences. If we cannot make it to the memorial or funeral, we ring up a franchise flower shop and place an order for some huge appropriate bouquet, usually with white flowers sprinkled in, include a few words of remembrance for the card or banner, and shortly thereafter the flowers are delivered. Whether in person or by proxy, the flowers are meant to communicate acknowledgement of a significant loss in that person's life. A trite way to attempt to assuage the plumbs of grief that are only known by someone who has experienced such emotion themselves. 

When I opened up the photo and realized it was Mother's Day, I immediately knew they were sympathy flowers. And sympathy flowers I did not want. I preferred to forget that I would never be a mother than to have it be rubbed in my face with a purple potted plant, albeit of my favourite flowers. 

As a married woman without children, I sit in the church pew on Mother's Day with mixed emotions. I am happy the church is recognizing the mothers for the thankless work they do, day in and day out, with little times for themselves. I smile as I see them with their little ones or teenagers sitting next to them, and I take a moment to remember my own mother who is now thousands of miles away. There is a bittersweet moment as I remember one of my good friend whose twin baby boys I helped look after until they were 2 and the close bond we shared, almost as if I was a second mother to them. A small tear forms in my eye as a pang of sadness sneaks into my heart, knowing I will never proudly hold my own little one in my arms and feel like our little family is now complete. All these emotions go through me but I don't speak up or say anything. I sit with my feelings as I know they will soon pass. 

Until the elder, or women's ministries' leader, or pastor up front starts to speak. After their speech thanking all the mothers in the congregation, they continue. We would also like to acknowledge all the other women in our congregation today. Even if you may not be a mother yourself, you are still a mother to our children and we want to thank you for your kind and loving influence in their lives. At the close of the service, we would like to invite every woman to take a flower pot home with her to remember how beautiful the love of a mother is.

A moment meant to recognize a group of people in the church for a specific role they have to play has now turned into a very uncomfortable, painful experience as everyone in the church turns around to search for the women they know are not mothers and give them what they think are understanding smiles. I pray for the service to finish so I can slip out with the crowd but as I finish shaking the pastor's hand and head for the door, a loud woman's voice calls out my name. Oh Maria, don't forget your flower! They shove a pot into my hand, then push me in the direction of the dreaded photo booth. I perch gingerly on the bench, fake smile stretching the corners of my mouth just wide enough to look pleasant, and pray for the moment to pass. The photographer happily informs me that my photo will be on the church's Facebook page sometime in the coming week. 

Then I walk out the door, pot in hand, as the sensitive grief starts to well up like a dormant volcano coming back to life. How can I grieve something that never happened? Who would understand the sadness I cannot put into words when I see a mother with toddler clutching her skirts or with a newborn in her arms? How can I celebrate a day specifically set aside for a role I will never fulfil, through no choice of my own?

Unfortunately, in a well-meaning yet ignorant attempt to make all women feel included, those of us who are not mothers end up being hurt rather than honored when the church fails to be sensitive to our experience. I'm not saying don't buy extra flower pots for the Mother's Day celebration. There may be a woman who is a mother to her niece, a woman who lost her only child through miscarriage, or a woman who is about to adopt for the first time who would like to take a pot home. But don't highlight or focus on those of us who are not able to be the traditional mother. Let us grieve in our own way. Without sympathy flowers.