AN OPEN LETTER FROM EVERY WOMAN

Dear Friend,

If you are reading this, I already love you. You have chosen to read an article solely for the purpose of hearing what a woman would want you to know. I hope I do this opportunity justice: that you read, understand and consider these thoughts.

This weekend marks an occasion on which ladies everywhere are celebrated. Not all ladies, though - just the mothers. More accurately, it's really only the easily identifiable mothers who are typically honoured.

For example, today I walked into our cafeteria at work. The chef had thoughtfully hung a few large paper flowers from the ceiling. As I paid for my lunch, he exchanged my coin for a rose he had hidden under the counter. I looked around the room to find each mother had been given a rose. At least, the ones who were visibly identified as mothers. You know us by our fluffy exteriors, our kangaroo-pouch tummies, our sagging breasts and the bags under our eyes.

Though grateful of his kind gesture, I wondered just how the rose became symbolic of Mother's Day in the first place. Doesn't the rose already have Valentine's Day? And weddings? And a host of other romantic affairs? I wonder if it's more appropriate to consider this day a little more deserving of bleeding hearts flowers.

I wondered how many bleeding hearts, metaphorically speaking, walked through our cafeteria today. Not just women, but also men who love women with a fierce and passionate love. I wonder how many quietly left today who may have been more deserving than I of the rose I was holding.

The heart bleeding for babies they never got to meet.

The heart whose hands place a single rose on a grave too tiny to hold all the love they had to offer.

The heart who has never lost their temper with a child because they can only dream of having a child with whom to be frustrated.

The mom who only has access to visits with her child.

I also paused to consider the ladies who received roses today, and the relevance of bleeding hearts in their world. The gruesome and labour-intensive process of giving birth: the first omen of the blood, sweat and tears to follow.

Tears shed over broken bones and hearts, lost games and friendships, and terrible teenage moments.

Tears that come with growing pains as moms grieve their child's growth - outgrowing our breast, our laps, and - all too quickly - our homes.

A mother's heart expands and stretches so thin it all but bursts, somehow seeping out of our eyes in salty droplets.

Perhaps the forget-me-not would serve well for Mother's Day, instead.

For the mom who tried so desperately, but lost her child to adoption.

For the mom who chose to place her child for adoption, but remembers with so much love.

For the elderly, who find themselves alone more frequently these days.

For the orphan, who can never go home again.

For the homeless, who wonder if anyone remembers them from better days.

If you are still reading this, please know that I am not suggesting we abolish the time-honoured tradition of Mother's Day. Indeed, please continue to honor the mothers in your life! Could I recommend a few adjustments, though, that would change the whole game?

In church services, sporting events, and other public meetings - consider asking all the ladies to rise. In honor of the mothers they are, the mothers they will be, or the mothers they desire to be. In honor of the mother who gave them life.

Don't wait for the calendar. Honor moms throughout the year! Offer lunch bag ideas at the start of each school year. Have an emergency fund for moms who can't finance the Tooth Fairy. Supply pocket packs of Band-Aids and Kleenex at the start of baseball/hockey season. A tiny aloe plant, symbolic of healing, can be discreetly given to a mom who has experienced loss. Keep a stash of angel items for those who have been brushed by angel wings. Carpool a working mom's child who wouldn't otherwise get to swimming lessons.

Stop viewing motherhood as mandatory. There are many reasons women may choose not to have children: health issues, genetic disorders, finances or plain old personal preference. The ladies who make this choice are brave and confident; please help them celebrate the fullness of life in their chosen path.

This weekend, some women want to feel special. This weekend, some women just want to be a face in the crowd. This weekend, every woman just wants to feel included in some way. On Mother's Day, please publicly celebrate every woman, who has made another woman, a mother. Because we all matter. No one is forgotten.

Much Love,
Vicki

To My "Practice Husband"

Hi. It's been a long time. Twelve or 16 years, depending on whether you're counting from the last time we saw each other in the courtroom, or the last conversation we had. So you're probably wondering what's prompted this letter: it was a song.

I was listening to country music radio (yes, still a country fan) when I heard the singer's words: "I just miss you, and I just wish you were a better man." My heart stopped, and my breath caught in my throat. I couldn't believe your face had flashed before my eyes. But it's true.

I held onto bitterness for a very long time. The bad outweighed the good, but there were good times. I had to dig pretty deep to find them, but it helps to remember them now. It helps to speak them out loud to our children, who were too young to remember much of those days. They don't remember us dancing or playing Ping-Pong or serving at the soup kitchen together. But I tell them, because I want them to know those days happened. I'm OK with saying I miss those days, when your laughter was contagious. And I'm OK, too, with saying I wish you were a better man. Because just when I had begun to find a place of forgiveness in my heart, you stabbed it with a new knife.

Back in the day, I chose you. I chose you to be my first husband. I chose you to be the father of my children. I chose you as my eternal partner. I chose you to grow old with me. And now, I'm sorry.

I found out later you married me on a $5 bet. I'm sorry that $5 bet cost so many people so much.

I chose to marry you when the options before me were to marry you or never see you again.  I'm sorry I wasn't level-headed enough to see the value of taking more time to truly know each other.

I chose to stay through flaring tempers and swinging fists, because I believed our children deserved to know their father.  I'm sorry I made you a father, and kept you in that role too long; it is abundantly clear to me now that you either did not want, or were not ready for, children.

May I pause for a moment to brag here? Our children are beautiful. They are my treasures. In a world of hurt and anger and things we got wrong, I got it mostly right with them. Sure, there were teen moments ... but we got through them. And those kids are two of the world's most amazing adults to date. They are hard workers with kind souls, freckles and deep blue eyes. They are astonishingly protective of each other, and of their friends and chosen family.

I asked them if they wanted you at their high school graduations. I have kept tabs on you through the years via a "creeper account" on social media. I always knew the day would come that I would have to answer questions, and I wanted to be ready. Confession: I had years to prepare, and still wasn't ready. There is no way to prepare for the emotions associated with a moment like this.

Although they were not ready to have you attend their high school graduations, they are ready now. A daughter has questions. A son seeks a conversation with a man he doesn't remember. And your response? Classy as ever. You refused to acknowledge him on social media. You accepted her friend request, but refuse to send a single message. Not even "hello." Clearly, you were done with them the day you pulled their photos from your wallet, threw them on the windowsill and walked out. You're a special kind of demon.

Am I angry again? Yes. Will I let it weigh me down again? No. You were my practice husband. You taught me how to identify a real man. You taught me how to choose a real father. You taught me how to raise strong, intelligent human beings. You taught me more than you took from me. I will not let you win now.

I am grateful for all I have learned. I am sorry for all you have thrown away, without knowing the beauty it held. I am saddened for the tears in my children's eyes. I am blessed to see those tears absorbed by the shoulders of a man who carries a weight that was never his by rights ... but it's his by choice. For all the choices I have made, the greatest choice of all is the choice made by a man to step into a broken home and love it whole again. Thank you for being my practice husband; you allowed me to get it right with the man who matters most. My second-and-forever husband. The real father of my children.

I wish you no harm. I wish you no luck. I simply wish you were a better man.

Farewell,
Vicki