Don't forget Mother's Day. Or as they call it in Beverly Hills

In the bright halls of modern laughter, where jesters wield truth as their sword, the comedian Jay Leno once proclaimed with biting humor: “Don’t forget Mother’s Day. Or as they call it in Beverly Hills, Dad’s Third Wife Day.” To the casual ear, it is a joke meant for television — a flash of wit about vanity and wealth. Yet beneath its sparkle lies the echo of an ancient truth: that in a world obsessed with youth and appearance, even sacred bonds like family and love are sometimes traded for glamour and illusion. Leno, like the wise fools of old, laughs not to mock but to reveal — to remind us that what is funny is often what is most tragically human.

In this saying, Mother’s Day, that holy day of gratitude, stands as the symbol of enduring love — the love that gives life, nurtures it, and expects nothing in return. But in Beverly Hills, that glittering kingdom of artifice and ambition, the celebration becomes something else entirely: a mirror reflecting the fleeting nature of modern devotion. The “third wife” becomes the emblem of ephemerality, of love reduced to novelty, of hearts replaced as easily as jewels. Leno’s jest, therefore, is not simply about the wealthy — it is about all who have forgotten the sacred weight of constancy, all who confuse affection with possession.

In the ancient world, love and loyalty were not measured in years but in honor. The Greeks told of Penelope, who waited twenty years for Odysseus to return from war, weaving and unweaving her tapestry so that no other man might claim her hand. Her patience was her offering to the gods; her faithfulness, her crown. Today, in the shadow of Leno’s jest, Penelope’s name stands as a rebuke to an age that forgets easily and loves lightly. What was once sacred is now seasonal, and what was once eternal has become entertainment.

Yet Leno’s humor, though sharp, is not cruel. It invites reflection rather than despair. Through laughter, he opens the door to wisdom — for only by laughing at our follies can we begin to rise above them. His “Dad’s Third Wife Day” is not just mockery of Hollywood’s excess, but a parable of all humanity’s tendency to chase the new and neglect the true. In mocking the gilded palaces of Beverly Hills, he reminds us that the wealth of the heart is greater than the wealth of the house.

Consider the story of Johnny Cash and June Carter, two souls who found love amid fame’s relentless fire. Their union, though born in imperfection, endured through hardship, addiction, and redemption. When Johnny sang, “You’re the miracle in me,” it was not for beauty or fame, but for loyalty, for grace, for the kind of love that endures long after the music stops. Against the backdrop of a culture that treats marriage as a contract of convenience, their story shines as a beacon — proof that the truest partnerships are not bought or replaced, but built and renewed through forgiveness and faith.

The deeper message of Leno’s jest, then, is that we must not forget the sacredness of the roles we play in one another’s lives. “Mother’s Day” is not just a date; it is a remembrance of origin — the recognition of sacrifice and tenderness that no wealth can counterfeit. To forget it, or to trivialize it, is to drift farther from the roots that hold civilization together. For when we forget to honor those who gave us life, we begin to forget who we are.

So let the laughter of Leno be not mockery but medicine. Smile at his wit, but listen to the warning beneath it. Do not let your love be fleeting or transactional. Celebrate the true mothers — not only those who bore children, but all who nurture life with patience and compassion. Honor them not just with gifts, but with gratitude that does not fade.

And when Mother’s Day comes — or any day that asks for remembrance — do not let it become another hollow tradition. Turn from the glittering illusions of the world and remember what endures: loyalty, gratitude, and love that outlasts beauty. For when laughter has faded and the bright lights of Beverly Hills grow dim, these are the treasures that remain — the eternal flame that no number of “third wives” can ever replace.