Had she not met that man who eventually became my dad, she might have ended up at Woodstock.

Mom lived a few hours north of the site of the famous 1969 festival. She was the right age, 22, and had the spirit that drove most to the festival to end all festivals.

She also had a 3-month-old daughter.

So, as most good mothers do, she put away her own sense of adventure to raise a family. No one can compare to Mom.

Certainly her story is not unique. Motherhood will do that, especially good mothers. On this day, we celebrate good mothers. And I will celebrate mine in the best way I know how — uniquely.

The kids are long gone from the house in suburban New York, having moved to locales from North Carolina to Mississippi and points in between. Visits are few, but oh-so-special. Each Mother’s Day, she flies into Mobile, Ala., for the occasion.

Some celebrate Mother’s Day with breakfast in bed, but Mom is different altogether. In a unique family, unique celebrations are in order.

So on Saturday morning, we loaded the car and headed west to New Orleans. Jazz Fest. The cream of the musical crop playing the massive New Orleans Fair Grounds. She wants to dance to zydeco, drink locally and eat Cajun. Jambalaya and red beans are on the menu, although she already has passed on the alligator soup.

Instead of leaving for home after the festival, she wants more live music. We are not arguing.

Today will bring us brunch at Mobile’s finest neighborhood restaurant, Callaghan’s, and a return to the family-owned, non-commercial brewery. Mom wants the adventure of brewing her own beer. For years she canned her adventure for the betterment of the family; now she’s letting it out.

However you celebrate today, make it unique. Do whatever she wants, whenever she wants. Many lose perspective on how much mothers are forced to sacrifice for their children. One of the many sacrifices she made was missing out on Woodstock. Decades later, she grooved to the zydeco band Beau Soleilin in the Big Easy.

So whether it’s pitching yeast as the finishing step in a British mild ale, scrubbing the floors, making breakfast or walking the dog, do whatever she wants you to do.

Because no one can compare to Mom.

At least not mine.