Bernie’s daughter, my mother. London, 1970.
I sent your Mother’s Day card yesterday. Spoiler: It’s pretty ordinary. My message is a paragraph long. In it, I wish you a happy Mother’s Day and tell you I’m excited to see you in a few weeks at the wedding and I’ll bring your gift then. Love you, love you. The end.
As soon as I dropped it in the mailbox, I knew I made a mistake.
Mom, you are anything but ordinary. And I know you’d be perfectly fine with just a card, which, since I’m going for full disclosure here, isn’t a real card, but actually a piece of stationery I had in my desk at the office. Oof. I’m sorry! It’s been a crazy week! But you know that because we’ve been talking about it, and you’ve been texting me saying it will all be alright and that coworkers complain, they just do, and it comes with the territory of trying something new. But still. #mothersdayfail
So I’ve been thinking. Why do we even send Mother’s Day cards in the first place? What we should be doing is writing thank you letters. I have so many reasons to thank you. I don’t even know where to start, but I feel like it’s important that I do.