Under Grumpa's Hat

The second Sunday of May isn’t just another date on the calendar. It’s a nationally sanctioned guilt trip wrapped in love and garnished with brunch reservations. But before we scramble to find a florist that still has more than a few wilted carnations, let’s take a moment to reflect on why Mother’s Day actually matters.

Mother’s Day isn’t about overpriced cards or burnt toast served with proud little hands, though those moments have their charm. It’s about honouring the quiet sacrifices. The countless rides to school, the late-night worry sessions, the birthday parties planned with military precision — all while managing to keep us alive, clothed, and only mildly damaged.

In a world that praises hustle and independence, Mother’s Day whispers a reminder. None of us got here on our own. Behind every so-called “self-made” person is someone who packed the lunch, found the missing sock, or stayed up late when we were sick — even if we were 37 at the time.

It’s a day to say thank you. Not just in passing, but in presence. A visit, a call, a laugh over an old story. A moment where we acknowledge that being a mother, by birth, adoption, or circumstance, is not for the faint of heart. It’s unpaid, relentless, and somehow still the most rewarding gig on Earth.

For those whose mothers are no longer with us, this day becomes sacred. It’s not just about grief. It’s about remembering love in its purest form. A recipe passed down. A voice in your head saying “Wear a jacket.” A reminder that the best parts of her still live in you, along with her uncanny ability to sniff out nonsense from a mile away.

So yes, pick up the phone. Bring the flowers. Hug her like you mean it. Or raise a glass in her memory.

Mother’s Day isn’t just about mothers. It’s about love that shows up even when it’s tired, even when it’s unappreciated, and especially when it’s needed most.

And if all else fails, try not to screw up the brunch reservation this year. She’s earned that mimosa.

More reading: The Mother’s Day Story