Tag Archives: #birthdays

My Mother’s Party

22 Apr

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I was born in the middle of a winter storm.

I look at pictures of my mother, pregnant with me, holding me, standing with me then, now, throughout the years, and always she smiles. Most times, when you take a picture of someone, you tell them to smile. You say “cheese.” You pose. You capture a tiny choreographed moment in a lifetime that is hopefully a good memory.

I look at these pictures of my mother. Someone may have told her to pose. Someone may have said smile. Someone might have said “say cheese.”

My mother did not need any of this sort of prompting. These pictures of my mother are real.

I look at my mother from the point of view of a child, a teenager, an adult, as a mother of children myself, then, now, throughout the years. And always, she smiles. Her moments are not choreographed. She is a person who sees and does and is the best. And she smiles. Always.

I know very well what it is like to be a mother. I know what it is to lose your patience and your temper and at times, your heart. I do not know this from watching my own mother. She never displayed it though it is hard to imagine my brother and I did not, at times, compel her to feel it. I also know what it is to fiercely love your children, to know a boundless, intense adoration. This, I learned from my mother.

You may all know what it is like to have my mother as a friend, an aunt, a cousin. Can you just imagine what it is like to be her daughter. It is a gift beyond measure.

In the middle of that storm I was born in, I imagine my mother smiled. I imagine she still saw the sun beyond the snowy sky, just waiting to shine. I imagine she took it all with the same grain of sand she manages to take all the storms she has weathered in her life.

She tells me how it was a cold winter and she used to swaddle me in so many layers she could not see my face, just so she could take me for a walk outside. This is the perfect analogy for how my mother lives her life. She layers herself and those she loves with enough protection and she goes outside for a walk. She does not let a little cold or a snowstorm stop her. She goes outside.

Almost 15 years ago I gave birth to my beautiful son, Charlie. I think it was the happiest day of my mother’s life. And, only one year later, she retired from her full time teaching position to be a full time grandma, a role she has taken on with joy and dedication. My mother traveled into the city every Wednesday night, at a minimum, to see her beloved Charlie, who was just a baby. But he knew. He knew her. He knew her presence. And he loved her.

And three years later, she completed her grandson trifecta with my boys, Ben and Eli. I don’t know if my sons realize how good they have it. How fortunate they are to not only live around the corner from my mother but also to live inside her heart.

She turns every day, every moment spent with them, into an adventure. She does not ever babysit. She babyacts. She finds books, movies, travels, parks, attractions, shows, and events which will spark the varying interests of each different boy and she gleefully spends her retirement money and time on making their very dreams come true. She is incredible.

My mother is a living, beating heart, that pumps love and life through all of us. She is the sunshine that warms us. She is the clear sky we all look to. She is love.

I am so very happy to see my mother to 70. I am so blessed and lucky to see her age, to have her here, to see her with my children, to spend time with me. Each line in her face was earned by years of these smiles, these natural postures, these moments of genuine love and bliss.

Mom, It is, by all accounts, a joy and an honor to be your daughter, to receive your love day in and day out, to be by your side.

Happy birthday, Mom.

I love you then, now, throughout the years, always.

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The Evaporation of Time

19 Nov

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4 am is not my friend.

It is the hour when I sing my anthem for self-flagellation.

It is the time, if I happen to wake, that I tell myself I am a loser. I am doing nothing with my life. I am not living up to my potential. I am wasting my time and talent. I am not taking care of the gifts I was given. I am going to be 90 in a minute and then I’m going to die. Not really but still.

Time is evaporating and I do not like it. Years turn to mist as I approach another birthday. This 4 am behavior always ramps up prior to and just after this annual anxiety-producing event. It is like someone turned over a heavy hourglass and I cannot escape the weight of its sand.

And it’s not just me and my time that I’m afraid of losing; it’s the people I love and their time too. I have been listening and crying to, on repeat, Bonnie Raitt’s “Nick of Time:”

I see my folks are getting on
And I watch their bodies change
I know they see the same in me
And it makes us both feel strange

No matter how you tell yourself
It’s what we all go through
Those lines are pretty hard to take
When they’re staring back at you

Scared to run out of time.

Oh, Bonnie Raitt, why do you have to be so wise?

I don’t know how to measure success. And I certainly don’t know what defines it either. I have had professional successes in different fields and yet I still feel totally unfulfilled.

Or, perhaps, success is being content with your personal life and that I am. I love my husband. I love my kids. I love my parents. I love my friends. If you can pick your successes, I would rather it be in the area in which I’m already thriving. After all, you cannot spoon with your career and if you can, please send pictures.

And yet that hourglass continues to be so cumbersome. It occupies so much of my mind and self-worth.

When did the choices get so hard
With so much more at stake
Life gets mighty precious
When there’s less of it to waste

Wasting time is a horrible regret to live with. I need to make promises to myself that I won’t break.

Happy Birthday to the Boy That Made Me a Mom!

19 May

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I was pregnant forever.

My son had no interest in leaving his comfy womb. And now that I know him, it does not surprise me at all. He may have had a laptop in there with Netflix streaming, or it may have been that he had a test he did not want to study for, or he just may have been enjoying another lazy morning. Regardless, he wasn’t leaving and he was already 10 days late. Apropos.

I knew, instinctively, I was going to have a boy and that he would look just like his dad. I was right on both counts. After a very difficult pregnancy and a genuinely horrific labor, I would finally encounter the baby that was creating all this drama. In an instant, we went from a married couple to a family on this day, 14 years ago, at 12:20 am, in a room that looked like a drive-by birthing occurred, after 23 hours of labor, and 42 weeks of waiting to meet our baby. My son was beautiful and perfect and sweet and calm and miraculous. And thanks to him, I was now a mother. Within hours, I was able to identify my baby’s cry when he would be rolled down the halls of the hospital. I was nursing him, I was studying him, I was loving him. My mom sat next to me on my hospital bed and said “enjoy him. Before you know it, he’ll be off to college.”

At the time I’m sure I thought she was being dramatic. There are moments so redundant they are suspended in time. They are simply palpable. I can tell you the playlist I quietly sang to my son by his crib every night (Sweet Baby James, Moonshadow, The Way You Look Tonight, the 59th Street Bridge Song, You Can Close Your Eyes, The Circle Game). I can tell you the lyrics of all the Wiggles and Laurie Berkner tunes we listened to while we played with blocks and stacking toys. I can tell you the way the sun fell across my son’s window facing 1st Avenue and East 74th Street each evening. I can tell you about all the things I packed in my diaper bag to keep my baby clean, and fed, and warm, and happy. And I can also tell you that my mother was right.

I cannot recall my son’s changing face over the past 14 years. From chubbier cheeks to the beginnings of a tiny pre-pubescent mustache to the emergence of small angles and large brows. The only face I see is the one that is always right before me: soft brown eyes, an honest smile, and the pronounced dimple that melted my heart when I laid eyes on him in that delivery room.  I am constantly trying to recreate those initial feelings of love and motherhood. I linger over witch hazel pads which perfumed the first two months of my son’s infancy. I obsessively smell my hands after washing them at my doctor’s office with the same antibacterial soap I used for the first year after my son was born. I keep many of his baby clothes with rags in my laundry room just so I can unfold them and look at them and imagine his tiny body filling them up all those years ago. My mother was so very right. She always is.

These memories have become part of the fabric out of which the tapestry of our lives is still being made. Days do become years and years seem to become decades. I find myself marking the lives of my children with milestones and events and hourglasses. My son will begin high school in the fall. He will get a learner’s permit in two years. He will take the SATs in three years. He will go to college in four. And I am clinging to those four years so hard that my heart aches. Perhaps they’re called milestones because they’re so devastatingly heavy.

My son’s voice is changing. He is becoming more independent. He is making his own plans and becoming a little man. It’s ok. It is what is supposed to happen. I just don’t know if I’m ready for it. It would be nice to dig my heels in, like a dog that doesn’t want to be walked, and just stop the world. But I want the world for him too and he deserves that much.

After all, he has been a gift every day of his life. From his first steps to his first “mama” to his first hug to his first kiss to his first bike ride to his first “I love you” to his first scraped knee to his first playdate to his first bus to his first day of school to his first year at camp to his first girlfriend to his first drink of Manischewitz to his first day of being 14, I have been there. And it has been an honor and a privilege and again, a gift. He has literally grown up before my eyes like a beautiful time-lapse film I never want to end.

I am fortunate. The people I love are doing all right and we are surrounded by a strong and very wonderful network of family and friends. And although I’m now several inches shorter than my sprouting boy, he nevertheless often manages to fit himself onto my lap and rest his head on my shoulder. He is warm and affectionate and sweet and generous with the hugs and kisses. He has not yet stopped coming into my room every evening to kiss me and say goodnight and I am hoping this is a tradition that will endure. Thankfully, it seems he still needs his mother because I know that I will always need him. Yes, he is growing up. But then again, so am I.

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