Mother’s Day used to be so uncomplicated. It was a time to surprise the one who always knew everything, and give to the one who was always giving to you.

Dad would take us shopping. All the kids would pile into the car, somehow thinking Mom would never notice, and go the mall to pick out a Mother’s Day gift, one that lit up the eyes of children.

We would get a joint gift and invariably, excitedly, settle on a piece of tin jewelry with bright, sparkly glass gems; or an apron - which back in the good old days held tight the vision of hearth and cookies, love and motherhood, and was often adorned with a front pocket that was clearly the secret entrance to the world’s tunnels of magic, for all sorts of amazement mysteriously appeared from within them. And then there were the home-made, hand-written cards scrawled with “I love you”, which were often tucked away in mom’s treasure chest.

Life was eternal then, parents forever young, children forever children, grandparents old enough to have attained worldly wisdom yet youthful enough to play games on the floor.

Generations fanned out all around. There was time and joy enough for all.

Yesterday, a colleague buried her mother, on Mother’s Day. Judaism calls the act of tending to the dead, hesed shel emet. Difficult to translate, it means something like the truest act of lovingkindness. In a world of transactional deeds, when people often do things for others so that - in some way or other - others will do things for them, tending to the dead is non-transactional. It is a gift we give to those we love, simply because we love them.

Those of us who love mothers, those of us who are mothers, sooner or later realize that time is not endless, that generations do not fan out forever. And the pain of that is almost more than we can bear. So for most of the year we pretend it isn’t there, we pretend it isn’t true. Which is why once a year we need to carve out a time to say what goes without saying.

It is good that Mother’s Day is in the spring, when we can bury our pain in a world of rebirth.

Yesterday, one of my sons and I planted an upside-down tomato plant with my mother. I can see why it is all the rage. It is neater to tend to than tromping around in the garden bed, it keeps the tomatoes a bit freer from bugs and no doubt makes harvesting them a breeze. I wonder if they can also be grown indoors for those without a garden to hoe. Maybe even all year round? We will see what sort of harvest ours gives us.

And, in my on-going attempts to tend well to my garden and keep the deer from my apple trees, I staked and fenced-in the saplings in my little orchard. It looks much neater now. The trees are snug but free, protected yet not constrained, much better than the netting that bound them too well.

Isn’t that what good mothering is all about anyway? Setting up the next generation so they can blossom and flourish, so that even after we are gone, they will still be bringing forth their fruit, their blessings, for themselves and the generations after them?

Perhaps on Mother’s Day , we should spend our time and money in the garden, our own or others, on community plots, apartment balconies or hanging baskets, growing flowers and vegetables and fruits, recapturing through our hands the feelings of eternity that our mothers once lovingly gave us.

(And since issues of sustainability and creating a healthy world for the next generation should be an integral part of our Mother’s Day celebrations, check out the source of your floral gift next year. Scientific American and Smithsonian tell us a bit about the environmental impact of all those Mother’s Day flowers, and Floraverde is an organization that certifies green and humane flower producers.)