Every birthday morning my mom calls to tell me about the day I was born. “I have nothing but beautiful memories,” she tells me. “I remember lying in my hospital bed with you in my arms. And later they came in and told me that your father was down in the city square reading the Christmas story to everyone. He choked up when he got to the part where it says ‘and she brought forth her first born son.’”
You see, I’m the youngest of three. Thirteen years after they starting making children, my father finally had a son. I’m told that I’m the only one they planned…
My mother also recalls the perfect whiteness of the day. Northern Idaho provided a brilliant snow storm for her to hold in her heart along with my birth.
She doesn’t talk about the physical pain of giving me life, or the anxiety, or her great fear that I might be born after the New Year costing her a significant tax savings. Time washed all that away leaving her with only the snow, my father, and my sweet baby self. What a blessing!
To her great joy and my utter amazement she remembers my growing up the same way…
I remember the fights she used have with dad over just what the hell to do with me. I was an ass in general. Seriously a major ass. Take my own stress inducing son and multiply by at least ten. In addition to that I never loved, liked, respected, or listened to my mom – ever, for decades.
Mom remembers me making a few mistakes but thinks of me as a good boy all in all…
I love and respect her now. I do everything I can to make up for the mind blowing selfishness of my past. Mom just wishes we had more time together because I make her so happy when I’m around.
I pray, please Jesus! that my favorite part of my birthday doesn’t change for years, and years, and years.
Peace and joy to you.