Today is my mom's 85th birthday --my poor mother who thought she was done raising kids and ready to restart life when (surprise!) I showed up in her uterus. I know that she cried when she found out she was pregnant with me. I know that she hadn't wanted me at all.
But I also know that from the second the doctor put me into her arms she's loved me like I was a happy miracle.
So as an ode to the most wonderful woman ever, I'd like to post here a very short piece that was first published in Offshoots XI, Writing from Geneva. Happy birthday, Mom. I love you and wish I was half as good a mom to my kids as you have always been to me!
My mother wanted to be an archaeologist.
As a girl, she spent afternoons in the library, turning crisp pages full of fuzzy black and white photographs, detailed drawings of famous mummies and lists of strange artifacts. She intended to dig in Egypt, sweat stinging her eyes, treasures from the gods of long ago unearthed delicately by a soft brush and her fingertips.
She ended up at home, raising six children. The treasures she so delicately picked out of the sand were bright plastic trucks and bottle caps and sticks punched through leaves to make flags for castles. Her tools were not brushes and picks, but soft words and pancakes and singing and love.