Mother’s Day has never been just one day for me. It has been May 3rd, May 10th, the second Sunday of May, and at one point, even a queen’s birthday in Thailand.
At this stage, I have celebrated it in so many different ways that I am convinced of one thing. The date does not matter nearly as much as the intention behind it.
Growing up in Mexico, though, there was no ambiguity. Mother’s Day was May 10. Fixed, sacred, unquestioned. It carried the kind of certainty usually reserved for national holidays and divine intervention.
I went to Catholic schools run by nuns, which meant Mother’s Day was not just a day. It was a long term project. Preparation began in September, with the seriousness of a campaign. By the time May arrived, we had produced an entire catalogue of heartfelt, slightly questionable creations.
I embroidered dishcloths, badly. I crocheted what was meant to be a rug but looked more like an existential crisis. I once over decorated a trash bin to the point where it felt emotionally significant. All of these masterpieces were then presented to our mothers during a full schoolwide Mass, as if we were offering both our love and our craftsmanship directly to God.
The embroidery, in particular, was my personal Waterloo. I am still, to this day, not fully over it.
And yet, my mother received every single one of those gifts with a wonderful sense of humour, grace, and genuine gratitude. As if each uneven stitch and overenthusiastic decoration was exactly what she had hoped for.
Later in life, I found myself celebrating Mother’s Day in entirely different ways. In Thailand, for a time, it aligned with the Queen’s birthday, a shift that felt both foreign and oddly fitting. In Portugal, it falls on the first Sunday of May. In Spain, where my daughter is based, we follow the same rhythm. Across the Iberian Peninsula, both countries pause on that same Sunday, rooted in a shared tradition that quietly ties them together. Somewhere along the way, the date stopped being fixed and started becoming fluid.
What did not change was the intention.
Even after my mother passed, I never stopped celebrating her. The day itself may move depending on the country, but the act of remembering, honouring, and quietly thanking her is no longer tied to a calendar.
And now, I find myself on the other side of the story, as a mother. My daughter has grown up navigating the same shifting dates, the same cultural adjustments, the same question of when we are celebrating this year. And somehow, that feels right. Like a continuation rather than a disruption, because Mother’s Day, in the end, is not just about one relationship.
It is also about the women who step into that role in ways that do not come with a title. The ones who guide, support, steady, and show up. The ones who shape us in quiet but lasting ways. The love that comes from them does not fit neatly into a calendar either, and it should not have to.
And then there are the grandmothers, the living bridges between generations, the keepers of stories, recipes, and quiet wisdom that somehow never made it into books. If you are fortunate enough to celebrate Mother’s Day surrounded by two or even three generations, take a moment to really see it. These are the rare, fleeting constellations of family that feel permanent while you are in them, but are not. Sit a little longer. Ask the extra question. Write down the recipe that has always been a pinch of this and a handful of that. Hold on to the small sayings, the habits, the way they do things without thinking. One day, those details will matter more than you expect.
Every mother will tell you, usually with a mix of truth and gentle protest, that every day is Mother’s Day. And while that may sound like a cliché, what they really mean is something much simpler.
They do not need daily gifts or grand gestures. They want to be seen. To be included. To not always be the one standing in the kitchen while everyone else sits down. To have their presence acknowledged not just in celebration, but in the everyday rhythm of life.
No matter what calendar you follow, Mexican, Portuguese, Spanish, Thai, or your own, Mother’s Day is not really a date you remember. It is a practice, a quiet, daily decision to acknowledge the women who held you, raised you, shaped you, or stood in when someone else could not.
When you do gather, across generations, across time zones, across slightly mismatched traditions, take it in fully. The conversations, the laughter, the stories that somehow get better every year, even the cheek pinches; the scrutinising looks; the inevitable, “Oh, you are fatter this year,” or “Were you always this tall?” And, of course, the modern classic, “Did you see my Facebook post?”
Woven into all of that, somewhere between the commentary and the comedy, is love. Familiar, unfiltered, sometimes poorly phrased, but deeply rooted. Even if you get the date wrong, call her anyway.
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