I remember very little before I moved to Parkersburg. I was four when I moved here. Oak Island, N.C. is my first home. In my first home, my memories are sparse. I remember the house was small, we were a couple of blocks from the beach and that my mom and I spent all of our time together.

My memories are spotty, but I remember taking picnics to the local park. My mom would pack up a quilt, real dishes and little flower vase – we would pick flowers to put in it along the way. The roads of Oak Island are lined with beautiful Black Eyed Susans. She biked everywhere. I had a baby seat on the back. That bike, and my mom’s strength would take us everywhere we needed to go – to our picnics, the store that was closer to the beach and even all the way to the beach on some days.

My mom has always been strong. Growing up, my dad’s job required that he work on the road. If a pipe leaked or I needed a ride to a practice, my mom was there for it. There was nothing that she couldn’t fix. By the age of eight, I was certain that my mom was the best one to have ever existed. She never missed a performance or a game, and was the reigning homeroom mother for at least five years. If I had a problem, she was able to fix it. A bad day was easily solved through a hug (it still is). To me, this woman is a superhero.

However, I think I spent a good deal of my time forgetting how incredible she truly is. I took for granted that she could fix my problems and mend my broken hearts. I believe that we are all guilty of this. We tend to forget how strong the women are who gave life to us, or fostered our lives once we came into theirs.

We owe them a great debt that can never be repaid. Their strength and grit determines our future in ways that we may never truly appreciate. They are the women who restructure their entire lives so that ours may be able exceed our wildest dreams. They cheer us on from the sideline from our first tee ball game to our final walk across a stage in cap and gown.

We relegate our celebration of these women to one day per year (first celebrated in West Virginia), and this blows my mind. These women who have guided us through our lives with the sacrifice of their own blood, sweat and tears, are only celebrated mid-May.

I urge you to celebrate, and care for your mother year round. But, today, from the bottom of my heart, I encourage you to call your mom. I encourage you to make a connection with her, ask her about her life and her dreams. Call her; do not send a text, or an email. She deserves this much, and you do too.