No. 108: Book Launch Day Feels Just Like Mother's Day

A note on disappointment and elation in the same intersection

On the Launch Day of Left Out this week, a friend had been acting as resident text message and Voxer cheerleader. She reached out in the last minutes of the day with a final encouragement. I saw the text while laying on Zeameh’s daybed waiting for her to finish brushing her teeth. The only thing I could think of in that moment was that it felt exactly like the end of Mother’s Day.

If you’ve experienced a Mother’s Day or two, you might know this feeling. In the days leading up, against your better judgement, you start weaving together something oddly resembling expectation. Maybe for your first Mother’s Day, the expectation is extravagant—a luxurious sleep-in followed by breakfast in bed (pancakes from scratch!) and a trip to the spa. There could (should) be cards and there could (should) be a song composed and there could (should) be a surprise trip to Bali. You know, casual things.

As I grew older, my expectations shifted. My desires changed right along with them, the way our desires always do as time passes by. Instead of excess, I wanted simplicity. Instead of surprises in quick succession, I wanted predictablity. A note from my babies to keep in my memory box, slow sleepy snuggles and time alone. That’s it, the trifecta of dreams. And O, being the wonderful husband he is, delivers those things year after year. It’s lovely.

But still, even with clear expectations expressed and recieved, after the last of the chocolate has been eaten and the final baby is tucked into bed, there’s always a feeling. The mysery isn’t what it is but why it’s there: sneaky disappointment. I almost want to whisper it, truly, because it stirs up such shame. I didn’t need more fanfare, I didn’t need another gift. I didn’t need more alone time or more snuggles. I didn’t even need the song or the Bali trip. So why, then, the stirring?

I’ve felt this same feeling on birthdays and graduations, moving days and new ventures. It’s as if any day set apart and promising to be special carries a weight of expectation even without you adding any of your own. I’d be so grateful in the moment, so present and overcome. “This was truly the best Mother’s Day/Birthday/Anniversary yet.” I’d say, and mean. But as I brushed my teeth or took my shower before bed, the disappointment would creep out from wherever it hides.

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Writing a children’s book ended up surprising me. I thought it’d be cute, you know? Sweet. Precious, even. I wrote a story for my younger self that I wanted my own babies to know. But then I started thinking more about my babies. And your babies. And babies who haven’t been born yet. And mothers of babies. Somewhere in the process of writing the original manuscript two years ago and finalizing the official edit last year, I realized we had left “cute” about a thousand miles behind and arrived at the intersection of special and important.

My hope was that a parent or child would see the cover and be intrigued by the polarizing words juxtaposed with the joyful children. They wouldn’t realize it’s a message that is alcohol to a wound before it’s honey to a sore throat and honestly, neither did I. It wasn’t until close friends started reading the book and calling me in tears that I realized just how unique it is. The messages pouring in on Launch Day from people recieving their pre-orders with personal stories and tears and videos of angel children reading my words broke me right in half and I’ll never forget it.