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Why I Love My Mom

Why I Love My Mom

I got an envelope in the mail today. A big greeting card-sized envelope. From my mom.

On the back flap was a note in my mom’s handwriting: “a wee bit delayed.”

Ah, how like my mom, I thought. A birthday card a month late, almost to the day.

Oh my birthday wasn’t forgotten this year. She sent me an Amazon gift certificate on the day of my birthday. And in fact we had a lovely party (mostly for Ben’s baptism but my birthday was mentioned.)

But I will admit that some years my birthday has come and gone with neither card nor present. One year I didn’t even get the call till the day after. That’s just the way we roll in our family. Very casual about presents and marking holidays.

It used to distress me. I remember one teen-aged birthday—was it my sweet 16? Or maybe I think it was 16 because of John Hughes?—when I was in a terrible green funk all day because in the chaos of getting ready for work and school no one wished me a happy birthday at all. I had to wait until the evening when everyone came home before anyone remembered. Ah there were tears and fireworks, you can well believe.

Anyway, I eventually grew out of hyper-emotional teenagerhood and accepted that this was just the way things were.

So today I was not at all surprised at a late card. And in fact pleased that she’s made the effort.

But I had to laugh when I opened the card and read it: “Congratulations on your excellent achievement of your masters degree! I’m so proud of you—Mom”

I graduated with my MA in 2002.

Just 7 years and 3 months late…. a wee bit indeed.

Thanks, Mom. I love you too. You’re the best.

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