I am not a big fan of Mother’s Day. It bugs me. As a general lover of all holidays and celebrations, this day is my exception. It hasn’t always been that way. I use to rejoice along with the rest. I remember making it a big deal for my sister, sending gifts to my friends who were single mothers, and even volunteering with children by helping them make presents for their moms.

But for the last 3 years I’ve tried very hard to ignore the day. This year, I almost managed to completely forget about it. But then Sunday morning I turned on the TV and there it was – splattered on ever channel no matter how quickly I surfed. It was going to be the beginning of a long day.

Next, I went to my favorite Sunday morning restaurant. A perky waitress wished me a Happy Mother’s Day and then proceeded to tell me that I couldn’t order my regular breakfast special because after all, she said, “It is a holiday” and they don’t run specials on holidays. Bah! Humbum, I muttered to myself, checking off another reason why the day annoys me.

Later, I went to church. Yes, of course, I expect a lot of fanfare for the mothers on this Sunday. But when the pastor decided to call ALL of them to the front of the church for prayer, it left me sitting in my pew with husbands and teens on my left and right, in front and behind. I stood out like a sore thumb. It was the only time (and I do mean only time) when being surrounded by men was annoying. Woe is me!

Even my Sunday afternoon grocery ritual meant dodging anxious shoppers carrying bouquets of flowers, leaving a mess of rose petals scattered throughout the store.

I had enough and needed sanctuary and solitude and went to the only place I knew I could find it on this dreadful day… Home Depot! Sandwiched between nails and caulking, I retreated from the outside festivities and suddenly realized what being a Jew on Christmas feels like.

Once home, having learned from my earlier mistake, only watched shows recorded on my DVR. But an hour or so into my couch potato mode, I felt a need for connection. So I logged onto my Facebook account. Bad move. Every single posting had to do with Mother’s Day. Cheery and sappy updates with endearing activities and well wishes just darkened my mood even more.

And then I received an email. It was from a woman who stated the words that my own heart wouldn’t utter. “I no longer have a mother and I long to be a mother, and this day makes me painfully aware of both like no other day.”

What a kill joy! Geesh! Here I was delighting in my pain and pity. Being blissfully in denial, proudly rebellious, and adorably miserable, I was in a gratifying place that I didn’t want to leave. Why, oh why couldn’t I be left alone?

But the started and I couldn’t turn back. It was my reminder what these 52 weeks are really about: Pursuing my personal desires while enjoying the journey; resisting the frustrating, discouraging and even the hopeless, and finding my way out; being encouraged and encouraging others. You know, all those things that make you want to gag if hearing them during your pity party.

The sobering email jolted me back to reality. While my life is not everything I want it to be right now, I can take action to bring about the dreams that I have. I’ve spent the last 18 weeks doing just that. I do believe that acknowledging my pain is important, but relishing in my hurt doesn’t bring me any closer to what I want. So maybe celebrating Mother’s Day isn’t such a bad thing after all.