MOTHERING DAY 2026
I woke up this morning to the sweet sound of birds chirping and the sun shining in the clear blue sky above. It’s Sunday. It’s Mothers’ Day.
Since I don’t have a mother anymore and since I am not a mother, what kind of day is this for me? It’s a day like any other so make the best of it in the spirit in which it was intended — remember how mom would want my day to be.
I sprung out of bed and decided to do two indoor things my mom was really good at — laundry and floor washing, and then venture out to do some things that she used to do a lot of in her younger days — cycle to do errands and to explore. I am good at the latter but not the former; but, trying to do well is better than not making an effort, especially on this sacred day.
So with the laundry hanging out to dry on my homemade clothesline, and all the bare floors in the house smelling of fresh Pinesol, I venture off on my Cannondale bicycle. My water bottle is full, my toolkit in place, some sunscreen and bandaids packed, and with my thick, heavy, 560 page Margaret Atwood Memoir in a saddlebag, off I go.
Along the way I see a sign directing me to a Lions’ Club Mothers’ Day pancake breakfast. The scent of bacon draws me in. I enquire about take out. They oblige. I’m given a plate to fill. A volunteer server piles on the scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, pancakes, and fruit compote, and various fresh fruits on a separate plate. I carry it outside to a picnic table, and gobble the food down as I watch children enjoy the playground. I was a child once. Loved the teeter totter. Why isn’t there a teeter totter here, I wondered. Oh well maybe it’s a danger nowadays? There seems to be a lot of danger in our world nowadays. I often hear that cycling is dangerous too. Good grief, but I digress.
With stomach full and more adventures to find, I remount my bicycle and head to Osprey Village in the community of Pitt Meadows. The welcoming to the Village is the most beautifully designed and decorated roundabout garden, with long wooden benches, memorial plaques and waste containers inaccessible to wildlife and indestructible by the types of people who find joy in recking property that is not theirs. This is an incredibly clean and peaceful place to read, and today includes completing the 500+ pages of Margaret Atwood’s Memoirs.
I stretch out on the warm bench and feel the sun shine its rays on my body like a warm, cosy fleece blanket, and I start to read. Her book reveals so much about Margaret the person, the daughter, girlfriend, “other woman”, mother, step mother, and wife. She’s an adventurer, environmentalist, birder, canoeist, educator, writer, poet, essayist and, best of all, she’s a true Canadian literary pioneer and giant who proudly defines a writing style that is unique to herself. She had faith in herself early on, worked hard and never gave up in her (motherly) efforts to clear a path for herself and other eager, determined Canadian creative thinkers. Her journey, and theirs, continue to move forward, and followers are catching on.
I close the book with only 25 more pages to read when I go to bed tonight, and travel on to the Village square. It’s a popular place, especially busy on weekends, sunny weekends, with cyclists and walkers sitting with an ice cream or coffee, before or after enjoying the new exhibit at the Art Gallery, before or after meditating along the river’s edge, before or after parking their cars at no charge.
I find an unoccupied bench. Sit for a few moments to people watch. Lock up my bicycle, explore the Art Gallery exhibit, and walk to the ice cream parlour for a rum and raisin cone. This is definitely how my mom would have wanted my day to be: pleasant, peaceful and perfect, and so it actually was. Thanks mom, I feel your pride in me!
