By Jennie Geisler

We don't talk about this enough, but it's good to hang out on the line to dry: Mother's Day comes freighted with as much pain as joy for just about every mother I know.

It's easy to think of it as a day of flowers and hugs and picnics and happy children's shouts and laughter. We take it for granted, like the vacuum-packed Whitman's Sampler at the drugstore.

But truly, many of us have lost our own mothers. More than many understand have lost children - some even before they could form a single memory of a single breath. In my rational moments, I realize that it's actually a remarkable thing for a woman to be raising even one child with the support of her own loving mother.

Miscarriage, defined as pregnancy loss before 20 weeks gestation, takes place in up to 15 percent of known pregnancies, according to March of Dimes. The Centers for Disease Control says 1 percent of pregnancies end in stillbirth, defined as loss after 20 weeks - about 24,000 babies per year in the U.S.

My Kathryn died on her due date. She literally kicked the midwife's stethoscope off my belly on a Friday, and on the following Monday, I laid on the same table, wailing as nurses struggled and failed to find her heartbeat. My first Mother's Day came six days later.

The most amazing thing that happened after that was finding I wasn't alone. Family and friends gathered us in a warm, strong net of support, but few could comprehend the enormity of carrying and delivering a baby who had died.

That I found in a group called Empty Arms, a group for adults who have lost a child due to miscarriage or stillbirth. It's a soul-saving club no one wants to belong to, but just knowing it exists is enough for me to remember that I'm not the only one.

Grief will always be with me. It's impossible to forget when my son does something wonderful that it's something Kathryn will never do. That when my friends talk of their

daughters, that is something I will never do.

I want to braid her wispy, unruly hair - badly - until I give up and go get her a bob. I want two words: Clothes. Shopping. I want three-generation photos. Happy girlfriend-cousins. I want to go to softball games. I want my son to have someone in the world when John and I are gone. But those things are simply not to be.

I have my mom, I have friends who have had losses, and we appreciate the bittersweetness of the day. If you have the Whitman's Sampler version of Mother's Day this year, stop for a moment and remember that it is quite a remarkable thing. And if you don't, remember, you are not the only one. HT

Jennie Geisler can be reached at 870-1885 or by email. Follow her on Twitter attwitter.com/ETNgeisler.