My father used to call it a “Chamber of Commerce” event. He always said Mother’s Day was drummed up to boost candy sales and restaurant reservations.  Father’s Day, too

Growing up I sometimes wondered if he said that to take pressure off my brother and me from digging into our allowance to come up with some proper thanks to our parents.

When I became a parent, I tried hard to pass along that same sense of “It’s no big deal” to my kids, too.

And then addiction hit.

Suddenly I was watching families dressed in springtime strolling through our downtown. Mothers were clearly identified by bouquets or corsages, toddlers in hand, teenagers trying to look cool trudging within the family perimeter.

Main Street was all smiles.

I wondered, why not me?

My daughter, already a mother herself and living 3,000 miles, aways noted the day and sometimes  sent flowers or a gift card for my favorite coffee shop.

But where was my son?

When it hurt the most, he was nowhere.  Not even of this world.

More than once, the day stung.   All the feelings of being cheated out of having a “normal” son – a “normal” high school graduation, a “normal” freshman year of college -were magnified the second Sunday of May.

Today, I look back on those sad Sundays as just another effect of the disease of addiction on me and my family…. let alone on him.

After more than a decade in recovery – for my son and me – it no longer matters what the calendar calls any day.

In the eyes of a parent – and certainly those blessed with recovery – or those who “mother” four-legged creatures as well – the date doesn’t matter.

Every day is Mother’s Day.