44 is the new 20

Growing up in a large Catholic family, Christmas wasn't the end-all, be-all holiday it is for many people.
Growing up with three sisters and a brother, it was your birthday that was special.
And it was my mother who made it so (for me, anyway).
Anything I wanted for dinner (even if that meant going out to dinner); any kind of cake, with any kind of design (or pie, as I started to choose when I was in high school).
But it is what she did with me at the exact moment of my birth that I will miss today.
It started in college. I would call from whatever time zone I found myself in at exactly 12:29 p.m. CST.
She always was the one who answered the telephone, and it always went down exactly like this:
"(Insert birthday age that year here) years ago, I went into labor in winter and you came out in spring," she said. "You owe me for a whole season."
"Sorry to have caused you so much grief," I said.
"Oh, it's no problem. You were such a cute baby."
Then she'd tell me the story of my birth, and how when the nurses wheeled me up in the bassinet for my mom to look at me.
"You crinkled your eyebrows and pouted your lips and looked me up and down, very seriously," she said. "Then, when you looked satisfied, you stuck your thumb into your mouth, shut your eyes and went to sleep.
"I knew right then that you where special."
Today, I will miss hearing, "Forty-four years ago..."
But I carry my mother not only in my DNA, but in my head, my heart, my soul.
And even though I put her through two seasons to get to my birth, it was worth it.
All the way around.


Anonymous said...

:) As it should be, friend.

RachelRenae said...

That's such a sweet tradition. Have peace today.