Every July 17, I give my sweet mama a call. She lives a long way away--in the mountains of North Carolina. On this day, I give her my thanks. "Thanks, Mom, for my birthday." When I got home from the grocery store and from yoga just now, she'd left a message for me, singing "Happy Birthday to You" in her sweet soprano, only slightly smudged by age.
[Pausing to call Mom]
Shucks, she's busy. Probably out partying with my dad and brother, which would mean, basically, they'd all drive to a favorite local restaurant (the more low-brow, the better) and have a little lunch. Mom is 85, Dad is 86--and still drives.
I'm 45 today. Who-hoo. I am grateful to still have my parents.
I'll call Mom again later. I vote that everyone make a habit of calling their mom to thank her on their birthday. After all, it's the moms who went through all the pain and struggle of our birthdays, and who know it the most intimately. It ought to be about them, don't you think?