For Mother's Day
Moving On

Coda to Mother's Day

I’ve been a mother for forty-five Mother's Days.  I’ve received Mother’s Day cards from “in utero” signed by the future father (aka Peter), cards made under the careful eyes of kindergarten teachers, cards in Spanish or French, depending on which country a son was living in.  All great.  I know because I still have them.

But there was something special about this year.  It might have been because I was so touched by Scott Simon’s writing about mothers (see ).  It might have been because it was a beautiful spring day with all the trees in bloom after our dreadful winter, and we spent the afternoon listening to a wonderful Beethoven concert at the Museum of Fine Arts.

I received great cards from the kids, including one from my daughter-in-law Katrina that would delight any mother-in-law.  Everyone called, including Seth, just off a plane in Sardinia.  Even Peter who always said, “But you’re not my mother,” when asked where my Mother’s Day card was, came through with a card, candy and flowers.

I know I am not a perfect mother, but at least one day a year, my family makes me feel like one.


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