As many of you may know, I don’t have children, well, unless you count that fool I live with. Honestly, sometimes it’s like having an enormous toddler—someone who crashes through your tidy home daily, has no insight into the damage they inflict, with the added bonus of grown-up man smells, round-the-clock golf watching and, unfortunately, the ability to form full sentences…

Me: “Someone told me today I looked like a movie star.”

Him: “Really? Were they drunk?” (to be fair, I do attract more than a fair share of admiration from our local vagrants, but still)

Me: (after a frustrating and futile day of trying to find a spring coat made for a six-foot woman) “Geez, if only I were five-foot-eight my life would be a whole lot easier. Of course I’d be the same weight so a lot rounder.” (chuckle, chuckle and the ‘I crack me up’ tone was used)

Him: “Yeah, five-foot-eight but 160 pounds.”

Me:  “I believe the number you are looking for is 140. I weigh 140 pounds you moron.”

Him: Silence followed by frantic and pathetic back-pedalling.

And those are the gems from last week alone. If I were the matriarch of this house he’d be on an indefinite time out in the corner with no allowance for a month.

Anyway, even though I am mother to no one, I know from my years of working with children and their families just how hard a task it is. I actually have my own mother and I’ve always given her a card on Mother’s Day—a piece of pink cardboard to return the favour of raising a child seems like a fair deal. This year, despite earlier assurances from a twelve-year-old Canada Post employee, my card didn’t arrive on time. Obviously, I am not truly my mother’s child as she sends my birthday cards in December to ensure mid-March delivery.

I don’t remember a lot of my childhood and all the sacrifices that were made for me. How could I? I’ve just spent an hour looking for my keys. But I do remember that during lean times in our house my mom made my clothes, and I particularly recall her making my first communion dress and veil. All this while working full time. I can’t even make myself supper. Hopefully, the wayward Hallmark will appear in her mailbox soon, but in the meantime I wish to honour my mother and all mothers everywhere doing the best they can with whatever they have.

My mother is forever asking for pictures of me but she knows better than to ask me to post any here. All I can say is what I heard from her many times: what you wants and what you gets are two different things. Well, seeing how she had to go without a card yesterday, I suppose it’s the least I can do for her. I hope this shot (taken during the brief period when I didn’t tower above her) makes her smile, and while she’s at it I hope she’s whipping up a perfectly sized trench coat for me. Happy Mother’s Day to mine and yours.