I love my mother, but not Mother’s Day. It comes every year. I can set my biological watch by it. Like the incremental changes in my garden that happen while I’m not looking, my dislike of the holiday that began as a small seed years ago now has deep roots and casts an even longer shadow.

Just like that biological clock that used to be contented to tick quietly in the background of my everyday routine got a figurative tech upgrade shortly after I hit thirty and now sounds an alarm every time I see a baby or a pregnant belly. I’m not a person to hit snooze in the morning. I set my alarm each night for the latest possible moment I can wake up and not be late. That alarm sounds, and I hit the carpet running.

This biological alarm clock is different. I never know when it’s…