Today is my fourth Mother’s Day. The holiday is meant to acknowledge all the work mothers do, the sacrifice of not only time and energy but self. Despite its lofty purpose, I have always considered Mother’s Day a slightly trifling holiday, promoted more by Hallmark and 1-800 Flowers than by any true tradition or feeling. While pregnant with my first baby, Nicolas, the thought of spending Mother’s Day with a child of my own flitted through my mind as a novelty. I imagined, briefly, what it would feel like to be on the receiving end on this day. After three decades of giving, this year I would open syrupy Hallmark cards and accept bunches of flowers from the 1-800 delivery guy – all because of the little heart beating inside my belly.

But then Nicolas died. And no Mother’s Day cards or flowers came.

That first Mother’s Day took on an unexpected significance for me. The lack of cards, the lack of calls – the lack of simple acknowledgement – was a silent testimony to the fact that I failed my son, that I failed to become a mother. I felt like an outsider. I had carried a baby for ten months and given birth to him, but I wasn’t a part of the mommy club. But neither was I a part of that group of women who have never been pregnant or had a child before. I was in limbo, not welcome in the mother group and kicked out of the singles club. So I spent my first Mother’s Day crying in bed, alone, my body still healing from 41 weeks of pregnancy and 23 hours of labor, my arms aching to hold my son.

The following year was different. I had given birth to my second son, Christopher Nicolas – a squirming, squealing, living child. With the birth of Christopher, I was brought into the mother fold. I received many calls – “how’s it feel to be a mother?” – received many cards – “Happy Mother’s Day” – and even received a bouquet or two of flowers from the 1-800 delivery guy. The change was distinct and real, the message even clearer. Now that I have a living child, I am allowed to acknowledge publicly that, yes, I am a mother.

Today is my fourth Mother’s Day, but none will ever hold the same significance and importance as my first. With the passage of time cushioning the pain of that first year, I understand now that a mother is not just someone who changes diapers, wipes noses, cheers at soccer games, or comforts a scraped knee. A mother is someone whose every thought is preoccupied with her child. A mother is someone who continues to love her child even after he dies. A mother is someone who mothers her son even in death. My heart aches for all the women I know who are going through their first Mother’s Day without their children. You are still a mother, and today is still your day. We don’t need Hallmark to tell us we’re mothers.

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2. A Mother’s Grief