Lessons can be so insidious and life-changing. So can ducks.

Five years ago, while our daughter Jennifer was dining with college friends, the topic of Mother's Day came up. Immediately realizing she had forgotten about a gift, she did what most college kids would NEVER do: order TEN FERTILIZED DUCK EGGS.

In my opinion, loving your children more than life itself is a given. The additional responsibility of incubating, then caring for, hatched ducklings is not. That said, I recognized that this gift came directly from a pure and loving spirit of giving. I knew I must accept it with a genuine, gratified heart. And so, I did.

Never could we have imagined the incredible experience this gift would bring.

Twenty-eight days later we watched as seven ducklings emerged from their shells. We kept them warm and fed until they were old enough to join the other ducks in the coop. Immediately they and the oldest duck in our coop, Momma Duck, found one another and bonded, forever inseparable. Momma duck nurtured these sweet ducklings with unmatched devotion and loyalty. Then my thoughts turned to my own mother. I never figured out if she was unable or unwilling to give from her heart. She had no priorities apart from her needs, and crossing her incurred her wrath. So unlike our sweet Mamma Duck.

The other day while feeding our small flock it dawned on me - the word "mother" is used quite loosely. While all mammals give birth, the Harp Seal abandons her babies after their 12th day. Hardly a maternal thing to do, yet she is still referred to as a mother. How sad. How enlightening.

I began to question what a mother really is. Having given birth to and raising five children, I can honestly share that my mother taught me everything NOT to be. She was the antithesis of maternal love, crushing my soul on a daily basis. They say, "If it looks, swims and quacks like a duck, it's a duck." She looked like my mother but emotionally scarred me like an iron and devoured me like a lion. Definitely NOT a mother.

As painful as it was to overcome my abusive childhood and learn to love myself while learning to love my own children, I had been handed a glorious gift. In the form of a lesson, I was given the unexpected opportunity to earn the title of "mother." I instinctively knew that I could never resort to perpetuating my abuse; that would be unconscionable. I also knew that although I gave birth to my children, I didn't own them. Until they were ready to live on their own, I was entrusted with helping them become world citizens who would make a difference for others, all through the loving and trusting relationship we shared-- and still do.

My children often tell me how much they love me. When recently my memoir Room in the Heart was published, in a respectful, heartfelt way they explained why they are not yet ready to read it. They may never be. They only know me as their loving mother. They cannot bear to visualize me as an innocent six-year-old informed she was a mistake and meant to be aborted. I am sure they would remain forever traumatized in reading how nightly, at eight years of age I was awakened at midnight and beaten on my bare buttocks to force me to urinate on the toilet so I wouldn't wet my bed. They wouldn't want to know, and shouldn't have to know how I was horribly mistreated by a mother who failed miserably to earn the privilege of being called "mother." More tragic, our children almost didn't have me as their mother; believing I couldn't learn to love them if my own mother couldn't love me, I became so despondent I tried to end my life.

But I am here to celebrate this Mother's Day as I do every day. I almost wasn't here to raise our children, yet I have been offered the privilege of undoing my childhood through them. Now Will and I excitedly look forward to watching our eldest son become a parent; a role he will take seriously and with great joy. Like the fairy tales he will read to his baby, my tale also has a happy ending. An ending that has really only just begun.

Here's wishing you a heartfelt and happy Mother's Day!
With love, Dana