Happy Mother’s Day to all those who should be so greeted on May 11. I’m never quite sure, myself. Thinking about the four mothers in my immediate family, three of whom are gone now (and one is bitter about how her children turned out), makes me sad. Mother Grace was cynical about the celebration, in part because she always said that she was a lousy mother (she wasn’t), in part because she missed her own mother (who died in our home after we converted it into a hospice for her), and in part because “it’s a fake holiday invented by the greeting card industry.” Is it? If I were Ann Althouse, who appears to be going nuts again (she’s been obsessed with having conversations with Grok lately, the Twitter/X AI bot), I would muse about why it’s “Mother’s Day” and not “Mothers Day” or even “Mothers’ Day”. Mother Eleanor, my mother, regarded Mother’s Day as an opportunity to be appreciated when she tended to feel unappreciated (middle child hangover, I have decided). Dad always made a big deal out of the day—he cared so deeply about her—and would remind my sister and me about it weeks in advance.
Meanwhile…









