My older son went to an iris farm outside of Portland yesterday. He had a sleepover at a friend’s house, and in the morning his buddy’s dad drove them to Salem and I’m assuming they went here. When I woke up this morning, this enchanting bouquet awaited me at breakfast and their delicate but delightful aroma warmed my heart almost as much as my boys’ hugs and excitement.
But this post is not a humblebrag about my charmed life as a mom. I wasn’t going to post at all actually. After I read Anne Lamott’s piece about Mother’s Day on Salon.com (thank you to IndiePerfumes for posting it on FB) I started to think more about all of the expectations around the day. Ones that aren’t met, either by us or for us. I thought about those who have lost their mothers literally or figuratively. Those who have lost children, or who have had difficulty in having children. As a midwife, I have to break the devastating news to women and couples quite frequently that the pregnancy they have been nurturing is no longer viable. I just had to tell a couple this last week. It’s a lot to bear on this day. This is a day that carries a lot of weight.
These irises look like they carry a lot of weight too. Their petals appear worn and seem like they’ve lived a thousand lives. The light pink ones look like stained vintage silk and the dark burgundy ones take on the appearance of old thick velvet. And for all of their beauty, there’s a sadness to them that’s apropos for Mother’s Day, which for me, holds a bit of both in its hand today.