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Like most people with Moms, I always tried to make a big splash on Mother’s Day. Mailed a card three days early, to make certain it would arrive on time. Went to visit, with flowers. Took Mom out for dinner.

I felt if I slipped up in the slightest, I would be in lots of trouble.

Yet my mother would always say the same thing: “Why make such a big deal? You treat me like it’s Mother’s Day every day!”

I never understood exactly what she meant.

I have five kids, all grown up with their own families. I see them often and speak to them all the time. Whenever I ever need anything, they magically appear.

It never occurred to me to hit any of them when they were little, and I tried not to yell too much. Lucky for me, because at least two of them are bigger and stronger than me now, and they all try their best not to yell at me too much!

Last July, our son Mike asked if I wanted to join him and two of his buddies at an afternoon Mets game.

I stopped going to Citi Field years ago. The games were endless, and parking was a hassle I was no longer capable of contending with.

But it felt pretty good to be invited to hang with him and his friends, so I said, why not?

Left the house at 10AM, and after a one mile trek to the station and three subway rides, I arrived at the stadium at noon.

The trip wasn’t too bad, as I listened to a playlist on Apple Music, which I have for free; Mike includes me in his family plan.

Mike paid for my ticket, and since it was a hot summer’s afternoon, he made sure we would be sitting in the shade (otherwise he knew I would kvetch. For the entire game).

And he had me sit next to one of his friends, not next to him, which made me feel like, maybe he was a little proud of me. And he knows I always want a soda, so he showed me how to get a coupon on my phone for a free drink.

By the top of the second inning I was pretty hungry, which is just when Mike passed me the sandwich he had prepared for me before he left for the ballpark. I washed it down with my free Sprite.

By the bottom of the fourth, I was thinking of another snack. Seemingly reading my mind, Mike passed me the bag of peanuts he had brought for me. Halfway through the bag Mike must have noticed me staring forlornly at my empty cup of soda, so…he passed me the bottle of water he had packed for me.

In the sixth inning, before going to wait on line with his friend for a beer, Mike asked if I wanted anything; I told him no thank you. He came back to the seat and handed me a pretzel, with mustard. Just like I always did for him when he was little.

After the game – a Mets’ victory – Mike hugged me goodbye and told me to be sure to text him when I got home. An hour and 40 minutes later, as I was finally walking down my block, my phone rang.

It was Mike, asking why he had yet to hear from me.

Next Father’s Day weekend, when Mike or one of the other kids invites us over and start to give me cards and gifts, guess what I’m going to say…