This is not a happy "Happy Mother's Day" post

 Happy Mother's Day. 

I don't like the holiday much myself. In the game of life, I got a dud as a mom, as do many people. My biggest takeaway from my childhood is that I learned how not to be —how not to love and care for children. 

Instead, I think of what my mom would have done, or did act and do the opposite. That little advice I gave myself years ago has served me well. Not that I feel like I'm a good mom, but I do show love to my children. And they love me back. I'd die for them if they needed me to. 

It is never about me, like it was so glaringly about my mom. Now that my kids are grown and successful in their own way, I have time for myself and my likes. I was worth the wait.  

 If I were a professional able to diagnose someone, I'd say she was a narcissist, the kind with a capital N- Narcissist. It was always about her. Her whims, her needs, her schedule, her accolades. 

We kids were there as props in the Brenda show. It has taken me years to feel peace about my childhood. Many were neglected and abused, so I am not special in that regard. But it does take a toll on anyone going through it. Some never come out of it healed. I like to think I am. 

Since I don't have a mom to wish a Happy Mother's Day to, I wish it to myself and others who had terrible, subpar moms. I want to tell you you are enough, you deserve love, and I see you. 

Here is a poem I wrote a few years ago-

 Mama

The name you call out when you hurt.

Mama

The one who loves 

You more than anyone else. 

Or should anyway. 

Mama, help me. 

Mama, I need.

Mama, mama. Mama. 

The space in the gap between calling 

Out to her, and when she responds 

It can seem like an eternity.

Especially if you call her and she doesn’t answer back. 

Mama. 

Pamela Roy