mother’s day 2025

I did not expect much today. Not because they do not care. I know better. But life often rushes past dates and meaning when we are busy simply being. And there was a lot going on today.

But then they came. One by one. Each in their own way.

Giulia handed me a small donkey, sculpted in grey modelling clay. Its ears are long, slightly lopsided, painted with care. A tiny, stubborn creature with chipped paint and charm. Sixteen and still choosing to create with her hands. I did not say much, she likes it that way, no overly emotional displays. I just held it and smiled. I knew I would keep it forever.

Olivier gave me words and a big hug, and a tear in the eyes too. A poem, handwritten in Luxembourgish, full of rhythm and memory. Twenty years since I became “mamm,” he wrote. Lines about ukuleles on the couch and dishwashers that do not empty themselves. About voices and time and the invisible threads that hold a home together. It was funny, moving, and honest. The kind of gift that does not fade.

Here is his poem, unedited:

20 Joer sinn et hier
Do bass de Mamm ginn wéinst mir.

Mammendag seit 20 Joer
Mir sinn gealtert, dat ass kloer.
Mä eppes kann ni verjähren,
ech hun dech emmer gär.

Op mat der Ukulele op der Stuff,
oder wann d’Stemm ertönt an fir Iessen gett geruff
Wann d’Spullmaschinn net ausgeraumt
an du bësse schlecht gelaunt:

Op eppes kënne mer zielen,
hier hunn eis emmer gieren.

English translation:

20 years have passed
That is when you became a mother because of me.

Mother’s Day for 20 years now
We have grown older, that is clear.
But something like this does not expire
I still love you, year after year.

Whether the ukulele is on the couch,
Or your voice calls out before we eat.
When the dishwasher has not been emptied
And you are in a bit of a grumpy mood.

There are things we can always count on,
And those are the moments we will remember.

And Amalia, my music girl who has been playing music all weekend in different places and with different instruments, gave me Springsteen. A “Best Of” record, wrapped in silence and intention. Months ago, I had said I needed one for my collection. I had forgotten. She had not. Fourteen and already listening between the lines.

These were not grand gestures. They were better. They were them. And they were for me. Not the mother they think I am supposed to be, but the one I actually am. The one they tell me again and again is special and different from all the other mums they know.

And motherhood. It is full of doubts. I often question my choices, my presence, the way I move through the world. But these three young adults remind me that I am doing something right. They are kind. They are thoughtful. They are creative and aware and loving.

And I am so, so proud of them.

Love is not always loud. Sometimes, it is quiet and sculpted, scribbled and sung. And still, it fills everything.