Mom's Birthday Blog

Photo of Pink Roses from "Webshots," 1/27/09

Today would be my mom's 79th birthday. I can't picture what she would look like. She had just celebrated her 71st birthday one month before she died. She looked beautiful then, in spite of having been in the hospital (with no access to her makeup, wardrobe and hairdresser -- not even a mirror) for a month! I'm sure she's still beautiful -- I just can't picture her.

I have no trouble at all, however, picturing her at different times in my life...

I remember sitting in our living room when I was a kid, watching her laugh delightedly as she shot rubber darts at the newspaper my dad was holding up in front of his face. All of us kids were just sitting there, watching and enjoying her laughter. (I suppose she had confiscated the dart gun from one of us, but I can't imagine where we would have gotten it; it wasn't the kind of thing Mom would have brought home.)

It was unusual for Mom to engage in such Tom-foolery. (Yes, the pun was totally intended, heh-heh. I crack myself up sometimes.) I suppose that's why my dad just sighed and put his paper back up every time her dart sent it flying from his grip. Even though he tried to look disgruntled, he was enjoying the game, too.

I remember Mom's laugh. (Not that I can describe it for you -- I just remember it.) I also remember how her voice sounded in all of its different strengths and volumes. That's noteworthy only because ever since I read in a book shortly after she had died that you forget a loved one's voice after about three years, I've been waiting to forget. But I remember -- and I'm glad.

I remember how uncomfortable she looked (only as I think back) when she took me to the Miss Michigan Pageant when I was 18 or 19. She did that for me. She didn't complain, or let on that she felt awkward and out of place. I only realized years later, as I remembered. And I loved her more than ever for it, because I also felt awkward and out of place. But I took courage -- perhaps even a little bit of confidence -- from my mom. The best thing -- the only good thing -- that came from the experience was the closeness I felt with her. And that I remember.

I remember the worried look on her face the day I was wheeled into the operating room to have Meagan delivered. I had never seen her look that way. She was positively gray with worry. (Some of that might have been from the early hour and the gray coat she was wearing, but that's what I remember.) Mom worked very hard at appearing never to lose her calm, always to be in control. Years later, when I commented on that particular memory, she denied that she had been worried. (See what I mean?) But I knew. And I was touched.

And that's what I remember most about Mom during her last month with us in the hospital -- That we were allowed to see her vulnerable, human side. For some reason, she had lived her life thinking that she needed to always be strong, invincible. For the same reason that I can remember the times when she laughed playfully, I can also remember the times she cried in front of us -- They were few and far between.

Among the memories of Mom's last weeks, I think the ones we treasure most are the ones of her as our "Baby-Bird Mom" -- how she somehow became small and delicate, and how she needed us, whereas before, she had always seemed larger-than-life and completely self-sufficient.

We've all talked about how it felt during that time, when we realized that she was really looking at us -- right through our eyes, and into our hearts -- and when she told us what she loved about us. It was the same Mom that we'd always loved, but a different Mom than we were used to. It allowed us to love -- and and to remember -- her in a different way.

I once read a description of the rose as being the most difficult flower in the garden, needing lots of attention and nurturing. (And of course there are those thorns!) But its beauty makes it well worth the trouble. I think that aptly describes our Mom-Rose.

Just as choosing a birthday gift for Mom always presented a special challenge -- finding something that would make her feel loved and appreciated -- so thinking about what I would write today has had some blog-clogging potential. I know that my sisters (maybe even my brothers?) will read it, so I'm writing for them. I don't want to make anyone feel sad. In fact, in hoping to make them smile, I have searched for a poem I wrote on Mom's birthday the year before she died. I couldn't find it, but I do remember the first verse:

Of all the moms I've ever known,

You're the very best.

As a matter of fact, compared to you,

I don't even like the rest!

You'd probably have to be related to us to think that's funny, but trust me -- it was when I wrote it! I remember how Mom laughed when she read it. That's a precious-good memory.

I feel blessed to have so many good memories of you, Mom. I love you, and miss you. I try to hold onto every dream I have about you, because they bring you back in a very real way. I'm sorry if this makes anyone who reads it sad. I guess that's just the way it is.

(I do appreciate your reading it, though.)