On many days, I scratch my head, look up to heaven and sigh, “Mom, you’re to blame for the way I am.” And on many other days, I scratch my head, look up to heaven and sigh, “Mom, I never appreciated you enough. Thanks for everything.” Mother’s Day is one of those days.
When my friend Peter’s mother died a few months ago at age 85, he flew to Ireland for her funeral. He was one of 13 kids, and she was one of 22. She had a sharp tongue, Peter recalled, and ran a tight ship.