This will be my second Mother’s Day since we lost our precious boy, and just like last year, the lead up to it has been bringing up a lot of feelings and thoughts. It started with last Sunday, which coincidentally was Bereaved Mother’s Day – a day to remember all the mums who have lost children or struggled with infertility.

Funnily enough, it wasn’t because of the day that it was, but because my family decided to choose that day to celebrate my mother and myself with an early Mother’s Day lunch. Don’t get me wrong; it was a nice celebration, but I spent pretty much the entire day in a state of high stress and anxiety because the kids were absolutely in their element. And by that, I mean they were feral and out of control because they knew they could rely on the “grands” to help them get their way and interrupt any “discipline”.

Something I’ve found since experiencing grief and trauma is that your body no longer responds to stress or anxiety in a “normal” way. Instead, everything is always heightened – because your body recognises the feelings and thinks it’s going through that same trauma again. So, my body was entering this week in a state of trying to calm down, reset, and recover from Sunday.

Except my entire week ended up being spent at home looking after our sick toddler. Doing that in my already emotional state made me ponder on a lot of things. One of them was realising that I haven’t had the opportunity to just spend several days home alone enjoying 1:1 time with any of our kids since Dorian was still alive. And of course, it made me sad that all that time with him was stolen from me.

Another thing I thought about was when I had to tell work why I wasn’t coming in and I realised I didn’t know how to refer to my toddler anymore. He’s not the youngest, as he was the middle child. But he is now the younger of the two I have left.

In fact, one of my most dreaded questions now is, “How many children do you have?” There is no perfect way to answer this – at least not one that I’ve found so far. One answer seems wrong as it feels like I’m “forgetting” Dorian. The other answer seems too complicated to explain to others, especially those who may not know about Dorian.

But the one thought that was solidified by this week happened when I was cuddling my toddler on the couch. I called him “my little baby” and he said, “NO. I’m not a baby.” And just as I was mid-eye roll at toddlers and their “independence”, he then went on to add, “Dori is your baby.”

And there was just something about that moment that made my heart so full. Because he’s right. Dorian is my baby; I am still his mother, and he will always be my child. And I love that we are raising his brothers to remember and include him, and to know that death cannot change the fact that he will always be part of our family.

So, while I will go into this year’s Mother’s Day with grief still in my heart over my incomplete family, I will try my best to hold on to that fact. Even if Mother’s Day will never feel complete or perfect for me again, I am blessed because I am the mother of three beautiful boys, and at least another baby that never made it to term. And, as I always say to my kids, I will always be their mother, and they will always be my babies, no matter how old they get.

Mother’s Day

Even if your child is up in heaven above,

You are still a mother –

Your heart knows a mother’s love.

Even if your child is no longer by your side,

You are still a mother –

Your angel is watching you with pride.

Even if your child can only be held in your heart,

You are still a mother –

You’ll never be truly apart.

Even if Mother’s Day feels like it’s been defiled,

You will always be a mother,

They will always be your child.

Written by Lynn Vincent

An excerpt from my book ‘From One Heart To Another: Poetry by a Grieving Mother’

*For more poems like this, you can purchase my deeply personal poetry collection here. It’s a book for everyone – for those who have lost a loved one, and also for those who’ve never experienced grief. Grief needs space, not silence and that’s what this book is:

An invitation into the sacred, unspoken spaces of grief.