Mother's Day isn't so much about giving mom the gift as understanding the gift of Mom. 

  

Dear Mom,

I remember Mother's Day gifts I made you using construction paper. I'd draw you a skinny flower vase with flowers tucked inside.  They'd be framed by "kid scratch" lettering sharing the same sentiment I'd written 365 days before: "Happy Mother's Day!". 

On your special day the siblings and I would get up early to surprise you with breakfast or Dad would take us all out to eat. We did that didn't we?...surprise you with breakfast? Because honestly the celebration of those special days when I was younger is blurry in my memory. Even though I thought you were a stellar mom,  most effort those days was orchestrated by Dad and my teachers. Those years Mother's Day was a day designated on the calendar to do nice stuff for you. 

These days your fridge is void of construction paper pictures bearing the stick figures and hearts that we used to draw for you.  Your jewelry box is still probably full of WalMart jewelry that we gave you that wasn't your style.  Thanks for receiving those gifts that didn't come close to touching who you are as a mother. 

I'll miss dinner with you on Sunday. I know that even though the other kids and grandkids will be there, that your table will feel smaller because some of us are missing. 

I know because I get it now. 

I know what it's like to have one missing from the dinner table because I have one now who's gone off to college. 

I know what you must have went through, when you sent me off to school. I remember those tough Sunday goodbyes in the driveway when I was headed back to school.  They're not far off from those afternoons now, when I stand in the yard not wanting to go into a house with one less member after Hayden's truck has driven out of sight. 

There's much I understand now because I'm standing in the same place you've stood. 

  

I know what it's like to be tired. Not the kind that a nap will fix. It's a deep down tired that a pillow can't help. It's in your bones where anxiety lives (regarding the things we want to fix for our kids). 

I even know what it's like to be dumb now. To look in the face of my kid and see them glaring at me, thinking I don't have a clue about apparel choice.  The ten year old is smarter than me now, just as I was smarter than you when I was about her age. 

I know now about Saturday mornings that consist of flipping pancakes after some of the family has left the table and some are having seconds, when you've yet to eat. 

I understand how it feels to want to smack someone who's been awful to your kid. How it feels to be surprised at yourself for feeling such things. I remember being surprised at your anger on a couple of occasions where I'd been treated badly by someone. 

I get now why you hid chocolate in the hutch in your room. It was the only way you'd get to enjoy a treat because kids are vultures and they devour snacks. Even when you set a limit on snacking, they sneak sweets and you find the wrappers under their bed. 

I know what it's like to have suffered shopping at the mall and then your kid wears the outfit they "had to have" one time

...What it's like to have put clothes on hangers for your kids and then find those un-worn clothes on the floor, still on the hanger 

What it's like to internally roll your eyes when they say they have nothing to wear

I now understand your disappointment that my  second grade "Smokey the Bear" fire prevention poster didn't place. I know how you felt, because I felt the same way when Hayden got gypped in a middle school competition on project he'd worked so hard on and done so well on. 

I get now that Dad got to be the fun one and that the tough stuff mostly fell on you. 

I know what it's like to see your kid cry, to experience them beam when they ace a difficult test

...what it's like to be worried about their health, to fear for their safety. 

You never told me how hard it was. Your tears were hidden. You worked tirelessly, quietly. You didn't keep a record of what you'd done for us. You were proud of us without making too big a fuss, lest we get a big head.    You loved us with a love that's almost too big for a human heart. 

I get it now. 

Another Mother's Day is upon us and I still don't know (as I hardly ever do) what to get you. I just know I celebrate with you. 

 Maybe not on the map, but in a larger place, in spirit. The place I hold in my heart for you is so much bigger now because I get it. 

Happy "I Get It" Day.