At the time, I couldn't have put why into words.
My mother was the sun and the moon to me. Yet each year on Mother's Day, she sat in the chapel listening to talks about amazing, angelic, perfect mothers. She inevitably teared up and was miserable.
I spent my time in Primary thinking of ways to make the rest of her day happy. Maybe on the way home from church, I could pick a pretty bouquet of wild flowers. I'd clean up all the dinner dishes. I'd draw her pretty pictures. That would do it, right?
Now that I'm a mother, I get it. My mom didn't think she measured up to the mythical idea of the Ideal Mother -- the mother that does not and has never existed. I've spent too many Mother's Days thinking the same thing.
In his book "All Moms Go to Heaven," Dean Hughes declares that instead of giving mothers flowers in sacrament meeting, we should give out solid chocolate statues of the mythical Ideal Mother so we can all bite her head off. When I read that, I wanted to fill a stadium with moms and cheer our lungs out. But while I understood the whole "Ideal Mother is a myth" thing in a logical sort of way, it took something else for me to understand it in my heart.