It’s Mother’s Day on this beautiful Sunday, May 11th.
While the rest of the world may be handing over flowers, chocolates, or Hallmark sentiments, I’m doing something arguably more symbolic: I’m putting my mom to work. Because sometimes, well, honoring a mother means building something together. Literally.
Not in a bad way but more like a redecorative rite of passage dressed up as family bonding.
We’re transforming Nadia’s room this weekend. She’s my seven-year-old, a unicorn aficionado and lover of all things whimsical, and she’s finally getting the setup every kid dreams of: a loft bed. Not quite a bunk bed, but one of those elevated nests with a desk and secret corners underneath. Nadia is glowing. Meanwhile, I’m knee-deep in panels, planks, screws, and enough Swedish hex keys to open a parallel dimension.
And here’s the twist: it’s my mom—not my classically trained carpenter dad—who’s calling the shots, although somehow my wife instilled more faith in my father than me or my mother. But more about faith in a bit.
The Unseen Instruction Manual
My mom is the silent hero of our household projects. She doesn’t swing hammers or saw timber, but she reads instructions with a monk-like focus. Always has. Even when I was a kid, she was the one deciphering complex furniture blueprints while my dad preferred the “skip to the fun part” method.
So here we are, the three of us—me, my mom, and the ghost of IKEA engineers past—assembling Nadia’s empire. Desk, closets, bed. Almost done, but not quite. There’s always that one piece that looks like it belongs in a different universe.
But there’s something beautiful in it too. We’re not just assembling furniture. We’re building legacy. Memory. A daughter’s joy made possible by her grandmother’s patience and her dad’s willingness to admit he needs help.
The whole thing reminded me of the IKEA effect—that quirky little psychological bias where we overvalue things we’ve built ourselves. A desk isn’t just a desk; it’s our desk, built with time, mistakes, and laughter. We’re wired to care more about things we shape with our own hands—including, perhaps most meaningfully, the lives we’re building together in the process.
Faith, Aliens, and IKEA Screws
Of course, in typical Mike’s Mind fashion, my thoughts did drift a bit. Between tightening bolts and deciphering diagrams, I caught a news flash that the new Pope—Leo XIV—had chosen his name partly in response to the rise of AI. It echoed Leo XIII’s era, when the Church spoke out for workers amidst industrial upheaval. Now, perhaps, Leo XIV sees the Church’s role in anchoring human dignity in the algorithmic age.
And just as that thought lingered, I watched the latest WHY Files episode—this one about Mantis beings, alleged alien entities said to be 7 to 8 feet tall with extraordinary mental powers. Sounds far-fetched, but the reporting, as always, was grounded in curiosity, not certainty. AJ builds the narrative, then steps back and asks, “So, is it true?” And the answer, as most times: We don’t know.
That blend of faith, mystery, and meaning—across popes, podcasts, and maybe even aliens—somehow reminded me of motherhood itself. A force that anchors us through change, makes space for the unknown, and says: even if we don’t have all the answers, we show up, we care, and we build something anyway.
A Mother’s Touch, Multiplied
But this day, above all, belongs to the moms.
To my mom, thank you—for raising me, for raising my expectations, and now for helping me raise Nadia (and her furniture). You’re still the one reading the instructions, both in bolts and in life, and you teach me things I didn’t realize I forgot—sometimes with a screwdriver, always with love.
And to my wife, Ruth—the mother of our beautiful and amazing sons and daughters—thank you for your strength, your softness, your stubbornness, and your steady heart. You’re the gravity that holds our universe together—an invisible but undeniable force that steadies us even when the cosmos feels chaotic and unknowable.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the women who hold space for others, who carry both children and invisible burdens, who build homes, lives, and legacies—one instruction manual at a time. Whether it’s a loft bed, a family, or a future, your hands and hearts shape more than you know.
PS. The two mothers in the cover art are based on my mom and my wife but not actual photos of them. The bald buffy guy should represent me but me being that muscular is wishful thinking.
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