On Mother’s Day, I usually write about my wife.  The mother of my children.

I don’t often write about my mother.

Bernadette Kelly was a great mom.

I called her Mommy. 

It felt weird to call her “mom”, though. Too short. 

She was always “mommy”.

My earliest memory of her is when I’m about four years old.

She’s putting some baby powder on my brother as she changes his diaper.  She dabs a little baby powder on herself.

I protest.  “Mommy, you can’t put on baby powder.  That’s for babies.”

She smiles and says, “I was a baby, too, at one time.”

My four-year-old brain explodes.  “Mommies can’t be babies!”

It’s strange to see photos when she was young.  Before years of depression and medication beat her down. 

And yet, most of my memories are of her smiling.  Not all.  But most.

She died in 1990. 

I’m older than she was when she died.  And she’s been gone for more than half my life now. 

She never got to see any of her grandchildren.  She has thirteen grandchildren.  And she would have loved them all.

Even though I don’t write about my mother a lot, it doesn’t mean I don’t think about her.

I do.  And I miss her.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy.