Since my parents passed away I've noticed I’ve become a little cynical about holidays and Mother’s Day was no exception. Actually, I never even considered it a holiday until recently – maybe it’s the explosion of Mother’s Day posts on Instagram and Facebook. Strangely, I don’t remember celebrating Mother’s Day growing up, probably because the world was less commercial then, or maybe because we were a dysfunctional family, or more likely it was because my mother wasn’t the least bit self-centered and didn’t need the attention. (I clearly inherited that trait from Dad.)

Mother’s Day is complicated. Without a mother, I’m not sure if I am supposed to be sad or happy. Secretly, I expect it to be a special day where everything will go my way and there won’t be any fighting, whining or resistance. I lie and tell my family I don’t care about Mother’s Day, so they don’t make it a big deal. They do the requisite things: breakfast in bed (last year the giant mug of coffee spilled on my gorgeous white linen duvet cover), cards (actually this year I got a verbal card), and encouragement to go to yoga or for a long run with zero guilt. These things make me happy and I appreciate the gestures but when I come home the kids’ beds are unmade, the compost bin is starting to smell, the dog needs to go for a walk and we’re out of milk. These are my jobs, it's true, but I’m pissed off I have to deal with them on MOTHER’S DAY! And I am sorry, but why do we have to celebrate grandmothers on Mother’s Day? There should be an exemption clause: if you are not currently raising children, you are no longer eligible to receive benefits on Mother’s Day.

During my Mother's Day rant, I thought about something I had experienced last week while I was in New York. I had the privilege of going to the Montefiore hospital in the Bronx to visit my friend’s patient, a stunning and brave 15-month-old Libyan girl named Maiar. She was recovering from a radical surgery to remove a “birthmark”, medically known as a giant congenital melanocytic nevus, which had eroded her skull. In the simplest of terms my friend, an amazing surgeon, grafted muscles and blood vessels to cover the exposed brain that was protruding through Maiar's skull. RememberIng her mother's exhausted and desperate expression as my friend told her she’d be able to hold and nurse her daughter again after weeks of not knowing if she’d even survive jolted me and helped me gain perspective.

As long as I expect Mother’s Day to be about something more than the simple joys of being a mom it’ll likely be disappointing. Of course the coffee will spill, the kids will roughhouse in the backseat of the car and we’ll run out of milk. Frankly, that’s the good stuff. Waiting for weeks to find out if your child will survive a surgery, that’s when you can rant.

In yoga today, as my teacher gave us options about how far to take a particular pose she said: whatever you decide, be in the choice. As someone who went through innumerable rounds of in vitro to have my children, I definitely chose motherhood. I admit, sometimes being in it is hard, but I don’t want to lose perspective that it should be anything more than what it is, because it is a beautiful thing.

Someone might have to remind me of that next Mother's Day.