Two things you should know about me:  I was one of those awkward nerds picked last (or close to last) for teams in gym class.  In my mind I can still see the hours of playing games nervously, with no native grace or confidence.

And 2:  my first enduring image of mother’s day was the day Veronica vomited on me in church.  Em and C were doing their usual circus-y best at mayhem and I was pregnant.  Fun and dignified.

Now.  Understand this.  I am ambivalent about mother’s day.  I am unequivocal about motherhood, ambivalent about its celebration.  In my mind I see two groups—the cool moms, their kids are cute, well-behaved, lovable, they go to good schools, marry well, occasionally win prizes.  Then there is the other shadowy group—moms of sex offenders.  You can’t see their faces, they do not want to be recognized, or worse still, they make ridiculous excuses for their offenders’ behavior and compensate.  Not a fun or cool group.  Technically I believe I belong to both groups, but the cool moms will kick my sorry butt out if they find out about C.  I am sure of it.

There is a part of me that says, really?  Do I have to be a member of this group forever?  The answer is yes.  The answer is yes because of C.  The answer is that C will always need a kick in the butt and a mom.  Deal with it girl.

So instead of cleaning my room or writing the great American novel or going for a nice swim I tell God, fine, I am going to call him and cut through some of the usual meaningless pleasantries and give myself a real mother’s day present—the truth.

As soon as I start I cry and I keep crying throughout the conversation, but I get my mother’s day present—the truth.  I tell C. that I will always be his mom because he will always need one, and that the pain never, never stops, that I ask all the time why? And that what he did never goes away or stops hurting for any of us.  I tell him I wish I had answers but I only have one—God and He loves him.  He hates what he did, He will always hate what he did, but God loves him.  Do you know it, C?  I ask.  Do you know this?  Have you felt it?

I tell him I have an image of him scrounging for change under a vending machine.  No dignity for a quarter.  I tell him, that is what you need to do to find God.  Get down on your hands and knees, forget your dignity and look for Him, boy, He is the one thing that matters.