Today was my birthday. It wasn’t stacking up well against other
birthdays. I miss Ian. My kids were bickering enough to get on my
nerves. The line at the grocery store was really long to pay for food
to make my own birthday dinner that I knew the kids wouldn’t even eat,
and everything was just too ordinary to feel like a real birthday.
But my mom drove all the way from Detroit and sat through boring
Chicago traffic jams just to get to me and bring me a homemade cake.
She loved the dinner I made. She helped bathe the kids. She’s going to
help me organize my new kitchen tomorrow, and move a bookcase with me,
and roll up her sleeves and dive into any other project I point to.
I was sitting here before going to
sleep, thinking about how she made my birthday, when I remembered she
made ME. My birthday is just as much her day as it is mine. I can’t
believe I got to share today with my mom. I’m the luckiest person I
know. What a great day.
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