In the history of my children’s lives, I have never been home for Mother’s Day. This saves much angst on their part, I’m sure: no breakfasts in bed, 
no flowers, no phone calls.
I belong to a group of women 
(fifty to be exact) that takes off promptly each Mother’s Day for six days of trail riding. Some use tents
some use campers, all have fun. The age range is from forty to ninety-eight (she gave up riding last year, but still has a little something at nightly cocktails
. This was my twentieth year attending.
It is a highlight of my year. I used to ride every day but those days are gone. So six straight days in the saddle is heaven to me.
My two daughters usually fill my duffle with cards 
to celebrate Mother’s Day. It’s always fun finding them along the course of the week. But this year there was a different kind of card waiting for me, sent via email.
The wave of the automated future?
Yikes.