Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

I’ve always been confused about Mother’s Day and who we are acknowledging. I understand the guests of honor are mothers, but just who qualifies? I’m a mother, so I supposed my children could do something special for me. At the same time, my own Mother usually expected that it was her turn to be the center of attention. We never lived close, but I made sure the card and gift arrived in a timely fashion. On more than one occasion, I spent the day attending a get-together to honor my mother-in-law while my own sons were at their father’s offering best wishes to their stepmother.

That’s where the confusion comes in. There are so many forms of motherhood, both obvious and subtle, that it’s sometimes difficult to acknowledge them all in one twenty-four hour period.

My own mother had a close friend to whom I turned on more than one occasion as I was growing up. We are still in touch today, and I always think of her on Mother’s Day. For almost twenty years, I’ve been friends with a young woman, Veronique, who lives in France; but whenever she visits me, we are close enough that she refers to me as her American mother. I am touched. I am also touched that Chris, my son’s partner, calls me “Mom,” and the card he gave me years ago is still a treasure. The front shows a simple sketch of a big cat with two kittens and one puppy. Inside, it says, “Thanks for treating me as one of your own.”

For me, that’s what the day really celebrates. It’s not so much about blood lines and family trees as it is about those we treat as our own regardless of how we came together. And, in that case, I prefer that we behaved like that every day of the year.