As Mother’s Day comes around, those of us who are mothers wait eagerly for that phone call or card or bouquet or box of chocolates. We revel in the pampering and praise — even if it is via the printed sentiments of a card.

But as we sit and wait for what we firmly believe is our due, do we give a thought to what we did to express our gratitude to our mothers all those years ago? Before there were Mother’s Day cards available in every rack, before Mother’s Day was marked on our calendars and noted as a ‘must call mom’ day?

Most often, we just sat back and took all the mothering for granted. True, we hung around the kitchen often enough — but not to lend a helping hand. Rather, we were keen on licking the spoons clean when delicacies were in the making. Or being the first one to see the souffle rise and the trifle get decorated ... We didn’t have to visit bakeries and confectioneries when we had Mother around to wave her magic ladle and churn out all those desserts and tarts and cakes at a moment’s notice.

We didn’t even have to give her prior notice if we had a couple of friends tagging along with us, when we got back from a shopping spree or a college trip or a hard day at work and were hungry for ‘home food’. There was always plenty to go around because she just dug into those jars of pickles and preserves and stuff she had sliced and diced for the next day’s meals and something unusual would practically make itself up. Or so we thought. It was only after we were in charge of our own kitchens that we realised how much effort had gone into those gourmet meals that magically materialised on the table.

And it wasn’t all about food. Somehow, despite all the time that went on feeding all those hungry mouths, she also managed to sew and decorate and design — things that we spent a fortune on in later years and were never satisfied with. It had seemed so easy in the home our mother made: Colour-coordinated curtains and cushions, matching bedspreads, everything ironed and spotless. Was there less dust and grime in those days, we wondered, as we tried to keep our houses just passably clean as adults. How had she done all that and still found the energy to re-create at bedtime the drama and excitement of the books she had read and the movies she had seen so that we grew up with a wealth of stories from all over? Were the days longer then or did it just appear so because she spent all her time on us and none on herself?

I vividly remember taking all that for granted, going so far as to say to her complacently, “That’s what mothers are for! That’s what you’re meant to do for us”! when she was always around to care for us and listen to our problems and advise us, whether we were in school or college or the work place. We didn’t think it possible that she needed a break from being a mother.

Every day was Children’s Day for us when Mother was around. And only now that we are on her side of the fence do we realise that we should have tried to make some of her days special too.

I recall — and I sincerely hope this is not my imagination — many rib-cracking bear hugs from us, cuddling up to Mother for no reason, twirling her around as she laughed and protested, making cards and gifts for no particular occasion ... Did all that to her what we failed to put into words.

Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.