My mother had an outrageous sense of humor. I don’t know where it came from. Certainly not from the hardships she experienced as a small child in Poland; and certainly not from the brutal Russian marauders who attacked her village and sent her family fleeing to America when she was seven years old. Yet her contagious enthusiasm and wit were undeniable.

At 83, she traveled by bus one afternoon from Queens to Manhattan, along with hundreds of senior citizens, to fill up the studio of a popular daytime talk show. Before the show’s taping began, everyone in the audience was asked to fill out a form stating their name, age, and occupation. My mother, a retired bookkeeper from a Brooklyn pajama factory, neatly wrote down: Bertha Mager, 83 years old, retired hooker. 

Apparently the famed talk show host read her response and was so amused by it that he called her up on stage. Despite the intimidating wall of television cameras and a noisy, packed auditorium, my chubby little Jewish mother stood up, barely five foot tall in stocking feet, and shuffled nonchalantly onto the stage. Her lightning banter and comedic timing immediately won over the sophisticated host, producers, and audience. In fact, the host actually invited her to come back on the show as a guest. My mother politely refused.  

You see, the moment it came to celebrating her own unique talents, my mother’s humor instantly vanished. Underneath all that acerbic wit, she felt profoundly inadequate. Many times, over the years, I would ask her why she felt so bad about herself. Whenever I did, she’d always burst into tears with the same answer: “I made horrible mistakes raising you. I was a terrible mother.”

 Yes, my mother was flawed. Yes, we often had a strained and argumentative relationship. But when I finally became a mother for the first time at the age of forty-four, I discovered, to my surprise, a genuine empathy for her. Once, in the midst of an overwhelming day with my Energizer-bunny-like toddler son, I called her up. “Whatever you did to me as a child,” I cried, “I forgive you! And I completely understand!”

 Those honest moments brought us closer together. Yet my mother never conquered her insecurities. A few days before she died, as she lay on a hospital bed, an oxygen mask covering her mouth, I gently laid my hand on her forehead and thanked her, from the bottom of my heart, for everything she had given me. I thanked her for the best qualities in me that she had inspired. I thanked her for the enthusiasm and sense of humor she passed onto me that my own friends and colleagues deeply appreciated. But as I spoke, it was clear to me by the pained look in her eyes and the way she shook her head, fighting my words, that even at the very end, she couldn’t take in any acknowledgement; she couldn’t let in my gratitude. 

 This Mother’s Day, there’s one gift I wish for all of us. You can’t buy it in a Hallmark store or wrap it in ribbon or put it in a velvet box.  And it’s a gift that our hectic society gives no value at all.  Yet for me it’s the most precious possession anyone can own.  It’s what my mother needed most, what I need, what I believe all mothers need.  Self-Kindness. The ability to forgive ourselves easily and often; the willingness to give ourselves room to make mistakes; the daily decision to treat ourselves with the same gentleness we give our children.  

 On Sunday, look deeper than the roses and greeting cards. Reach for the gift my mother struggled to accept in the last days of her life. Give yourself a little tenderness…