FUNNY THING ABOUT BIRTHDAYS…

It’s a funny thing about birthdays…

Maybe we toot our horn and tear into a gift or two, as if it’s all about us. But I think it’s my mother who should be celebrating my birthday. After all she’s the one who went into labor and was summarily drugged out of her mind. She’s the one who slept through the whole “birth thing” but did wake up in time to find a newborn lying on her belly looking for food. In those days the baby bottle was the preferred nutritional delivery system, so mom learned how to hold a baby bottle.

Of course I don’t remember a thing about that November morning. It’s all hearsay and I’m taking other people’s word that this stuff actually happened. Funny thing huh? Apparently a new ritual began exactly one year later when the family celebrated my 1st birthday with cake and singing. I don’t remember that either. Which makes me sad because I love cake. And singing.

I visit my ninety-two year old mother this morning after her exciting weekend of falls and a visit from the paramedics. The caregiver can’t lift her off the floor. A phalanx of husky, handsome men in thick uniforms appear at the door. Once they get mom upright, she comes alive and flirts ferociously. This is a woman who loves to be the center of attention, no matter what, and having seven medical men hover, check her vital signs and ask personal questions, aw gee, this has gotta be heaven. Soon we realize she is dazed but unhurt. The paramedics zoom off on another call and mom is tucked back into bed. Within minutes she will forget what happened. Thankfully she’s okay. For now. But as you know, you don’t know. You never know. We ride the rollercoaster and hang on.

My mother does not remember my birthday and I’ve quit reminding her because when I do, she says “oh it’s just another day” and changes the subject. Ouch. Just a wee bit dismissive, don’t you think? Then again, it’s true. This IS just another day.

But…

Of course there is a BUT. I am here. You are here. That is reason enough to celebrate because someday that won’t be the case. But why wait for the one day a year called “birthday” to acknowledge the passage of time? Why wait to say, or think, or write, or text or tweet “thank you?” Thank you for this precious moment.

My mother loses a little more of her story every day. The people she once loved or hated with a vengeance that terrified me, they are disappearing—slowly—into a deep gray mist. The television is the centerpiece of her world now. Turner Classic Movies and CNN. She laughs a lot.

So Happy Birthday to all of us. Every single day!