Happy birthday to you, mom.
Eighty four years old today.
There is much to admire about my mom. She is smart and curious and the heart of our family. She is the best baker I know. She can whip up yummy French bread, wonderful chocolate chip cookies and these light buttery rolls that we call "birds". She loves the Oregon Ducks and the Seattle Mariners.
But most of all she loves Leah.
My parents were born to be grandparents. They were 77 when my daughter was born but they jumped right in. My mom took over when we got the news about Leah's arrival. I was in a daze but she pushed me to find a crib, a changing table and all the right accessories. When we almost lost Leah, she turned to her faith and put our fate in God's hands. I was numb but she didn't give up. When everything turned out okay, she did not seem surprised.
I'm not sure if it's true of all mom's in their eighties, but I've noticed that with her, my stock has risen over the years. For whatever reason, my mom thinks I am very wise. She thinks I know everything about everything. She thinks I can find anything and fix everything. She also thinks I'm a gourmet cook (I'm not) and I'm quite positive she thinks I'm in charge at work (believe me, I'm not.)
I live 1,200 miles away from her and every year she sends me her handwritten Christmas letter so that I can edit it, print it on Christmas paper and ship it all back to her. Every year I delete the introductory paragraph detailing their various ailments and I substitute a few cheerful sentences about their current travels (casinos and drives to the coast) and family news.
I miss her everyday and wish we lived closer.
Happy birthday mom.
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