Well one more year went by when I couldn’t be with my mother for Mother’s Day.

Oh, how I wish I could. It’s been many years since she passed away so one would think I would stop yearning to spend more time with her.

But the odd thing is, that longing keeps getting worse.

Perhaps the reason for that is because as the years go by I understand more and more how extraordinary she was. With age comes a clearer perspective. It’s odd how we gain a better vision of the past long after it’s gone.

If you would have had the opportunity to talk with my mother while she was here she would tell you what a good daughter I was.

While that might be true, the total truth is when I was a teenager I never gave her the reverence she deserved.

Honestly, I don’t think all of us fully appreciate our mothers while they are still alive.

Erma Bombeck used to joke that after she died she would become a saint to her children. She said it takes leaving this earth to gain saint status.

Before that, it’s the typical relationship where mothers aren’t always understood.

First a mother has to get through the turbulent teen years with teenagers, only to get to the point where adult children see a mother’s perceived flaws faster than her virtues.

Last week I wrote about “do overs,” times we wish we could wipe out and do them all over again.

Even though my mother insisted I was the perfect daughter, I knew better because I still felt the red-hot shame of ugly words I once threw at her.

I have no idea what I was angry about but I vividly remember telling her when I had children of my own I wouldn’t treat them as terribly as she treated me. I wouldn’t be mean.

She calmly answered, “That’s nice.”

She monitored everything I did and had standards far stricter than that of other parents.

I told my friends the reason why I never tried smoking was because my mother would kill me if I did. They laughed, thinking I was joking.

Mom saw her job as taking care of me until I could do it on my own. When I was a teenager she didn’t get the respect and reverence she deserved.

I used to write Mother’s Day poems for my friends. I would ask them to tell me about their mother then would put those thoughts into poems. My friends would copy the poem and give it to their mother for Mother’s Day,

I wrote poems for everyone but for that year I didn’t write one for my “mean mom.”

Oh how I wish I could redo that year.

I gained more wisdom during my adult years when I realized how incredible she was.

For a decade or so, I was lucky enough to live in the same town as she did. It was a hike walking to her house but I did it often because I recognized she was a seat of wisdom.

When we were forced to move two hours away I drove there as often as I could. I knew anyone that still has her mother has a priceless gift.

After she passed away there were dozens of times when I would reach for the phone to call her, forgetting that privilege was no longer mine.

To this day, I still find myself wanting to talk with her.

I always thought my mother and I were nothing alike. Except for a love of family, we didn’t like the same things.

Imagine my surprise as I get older and realize I am so much like her, complete to our taste in decorating.

The other week as I sat in a diner I listened to two women at the next table complaining about their mother’s upcoming visit. One woman said it wouldn’t take long before her mother would “get on her nerves.” She said she would plan activities so she didn’t have to spend as much time talking with her mother,

I felt sorry for her because she doesn’t understand how lucky she is to still have her mother.

A while ago one of my elderly neighbors told me about the strange but heartbreaking visit she had with her daughter.

She claims all she did was tell her daughter it was too long since they were together. She says her daughter took it wrong.

“She said, ‘Don’t start Mom.’ Then picked herself up and left.”

The daughter never came back. Her mother passed before they could be together again.

“We never know when it will be the last time,” the daughter said. “We might have acted differently if we knew that.”

The daughter has spent the last few weeks clearing out her mother’s house, saving a few sentimental things but throwing most of it away.

I was sad for her as I watched her try to get rid of her mother’s things. I’m sure the one thing she won’t easily get rid of is the feeling of “if only.”

If only it would have ended differently.

Erma Bombeck is quoted as saying it’s not until you become a mother that your judgment slowly turns to compassion and understanding.

That understanding often deepens as we age.

If only we had it decades earlier.

Contact Pattie Mihalik at newsgirl@comcast.net