Mom

I've been in kind-of a reflective mood the past few days. Friday was my mother's birthday; she would have been 84, had she lived. She died this past November, so this was the first of her birthdays since she died. It felt strange, wanting to call her to wish her Happy Birthday, and knowing that I couldn't. I felt as though her birthday should be commemorated somehow. In the days leading up to her birthday, I considered texting my sister and suggesting we both find a card Mom would have liked, then sending it to each other. Or maybe simply a text to each other on her birthday. I don't know...

In the end, I bought a cake mix and a can of frosting. It was a yellow cake and chocolate frosting, the type of cake Mom always baked me for my birthday. I figured I'd bake it Friday afternoon, but Friday got away from me, as did the weekend. Maybe tomorrow.

I brought a few things out to the recycling bin this evening, and thought back to when we moved to Florida, a life-time ago. We left upstate New York the last week of February on a day when the wind chill index made it feel like 40 below. Mom and Dad were getting divorced, which is seldom an easy thing. Mom had her brother, my Uncle D., accompany us in his car as far as Springfield, Massachusetts, a city that took us about 250 miles out of the way en route to Florida. Don't ask me why; the logic escapes me. Maybe it was the map-reading thing; maybe it was...well, who knows why.

The next day, Uncle D. headed back home to Aunt N., while Mom, my sister A. and our brother G. headed south. Mom had mentioned she felt horrible. She had debated whether to have us take her to the nearest hospital, but figured she had just enough money to get us to Florida without an extra stop. So she handed me the car keys and the map of the eastern U.S., reminded me that I had a New York state learner's permit, then told me to get us to St. Pete. Fortunately, I can read maps just fine, otherwise we might have ended up in Nome, Alaska. (Passing through customs twice, though - once going into Canada, once leaving - might have tipped me off.)

Mom seemed a little strange during the trip, but A. and I chalked it up to a combination of three major life changes: Mom was turning 40 (a big deal back when she hit 40), she was divorcing Dad, and we were moving a little more than 1,300 miles (and numerous states) away, more than 1500 miles, if you include the side-trip through Massachusetts. By the time we got to Grandma and Grandpa's the day before Mom's birthday, she was in bad shape. In fact, she spent most of her birthday in the nearest emergency room.

Finally, a week or so later, she started feeling better, more herself. It wasn't until years later, while in her early 50s and married to my first step-dad, that she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Apparently, when we'd thought was a bad case of what my younger two and I call the ditzy doodles on the trip was really her introduction to MS, which soon went into a long remission.

During the first month or so in Florida, we stayed with Mom's parents, who lived in an apartment on the second floor. Every evening, after dinner, I'd walk along the long attached balconies in front of the upper floor apartments, descend the stairs at the end of the building, then walk the second floor balcony on the building behind Grandma and Grandpa's, eventually ending up back where I'd started. The weather was exactly the way it is now: definitely warmer than upstate New York, while nowhere near as hot as it gets here during the summer. The air even smells fresh.Whenever the weather is like this in the evening, especially in March, I can't help but remember our first Florida March, and Mom's first Florida birthday. Now it's Mom's first birthday since she's been gone. And while our relationship had been difficult most of the past few decades (I'd always been a Daddy's girl), we'd slowly gotten somewhat closer, almost friendly the last couple of years. I miss her.

The cake gets baked tomorrow, even though it's a few days late. Happy Birthday, Mom.

Birthday wishes and children

My daughter came over today; she spent a couple of hours here. I'd called and asked her to come over, since I had a birthday card for her.

I can distinctly remember the day she was born. I'd been told that I wouldn't be able to have any kids after her older brother; there were times when they were growing up when I'm sure they both would have preferred being only children; instead, they were joined by two younger brothers. I tell M.H. that she's my favorite daughter; it helps, if you're going to be the favorite daughter, to be the only daughter. (For the record, she's married to my favorite son-in-law; he has informed me that I'm his favorite mother-in-law. I also have a favorite oldest son, a favorite middle son, and a favorite youngest son.)

Several days before M.H. was born, her father and I put up our Christmas tree and decorated it. The night before she was born, I'd peeled several oranges. I was making homemade orange spice tea to give out for Christmas presents, and it called for the peels of three or four oranges; these were cut into strips, then baked for several minutes, then cut up further and mixed with loose tea, whole cloves, stick cinnamon, and several other things I no longer remember.

After baking the peels, I decided to go to bed; the cloves, cinnamon, et al could be assembled the next morning, then packed to send out.

But M.H. had other plans. Sometime during the night, I woke my then hubby up; he called my mother so she could come take care of J.A., after which, we'd head for the hospital. When Mom showed up, I was puttering around the kitchen, putting the tea kettle onto the stove so I could fix her a cup of tea (obviously not the spice tea, since it would have to wait an extra day to be assembled). She came in, checked to make sure J.A. was asleep (he was), then asked how far apart the contractions were.

"About five minutes apart," was the answer. The hospital was a good half-hour's drive away; five minutes apart meant things were beginning to speed up a little.

"What are you waiting for?" she demanded. I thought it was obvious; she'd always taught me that when someone came over to your home, you fixed that person a cup of tea! The water was almost to a boil, and..."If I want a cup of tea at three a.m., I can fix myself!" she scolded. "Now GO, before you end up having that baby in the car!"

As she pushed me out the door, hubby pulled my arm. "Let's go!"

M.H. was born several hours later. As with most babies, she looked a little like an elfish prize fighter, but a beautiful one. Ask most parents, their newborns are the most beautiful babies in the world.

Two asides here: When M.H. gave birth to G., sometime during the night, B. called from the hospital and left a message on our voice mail. "Hey, Grandma," the message started; you could hear the emotion in B.'s voice. "G.'s here. She's beautiful." When I visited a few weeks later, the man who swore nobody had better come up with any nicknames for G. already had two or three for his little girl.

The second one is from when I was born. Dads were not yet allowed in the delivery room, and Dad didn't have much experience with newborns. He figured I'd look like a two or three month old right from the start, all pink and clean and advertisement-cute. After Mom got back to her room, Dad came in to see her.

"Did you stop by the nursery and see Robin?" mom asked. Dad nodded solemnly. "Well, what do you think? Isn't she beautiful?"

Dad struggled to find the right words. He'd never seen a newborn before. Finally, he managed to spit out the truth, in a round-about way: "I'm sure she'll have a nice personality."

Fortunately, Mom forgave the remark, Dad realized newborns are beautiful in their own way, and things got better. (I hope my personality is at least passable.)

But back to M.H.: She seemed very alert and happy (i.e., she wasn't a screamer), she had a tuft of red hair, and the nurses ooohed and aaahed over her.

That evening, after dinner, hubby and I sat and watched TV, me in the bed, holding M.H., he on the chair nearby. After he left, I watched one of our favorite shows while he watched the same from home ("Starsky and Hutch"). I managed to keep M.H. with me until 10 that night; she slept most of the time she was with me. I only half-watched the TV; I was busy counting tiny fingers and toes, looking at her red hair, remembering how tiny newborns are.

We went home the next day morning, a change from when her brother was born, when we nearly had to stay in the hospital three days (he was four hours shy of the 48 hours of age that babies were required to be before being released). That afternoon, I managed to finish putting the tea together, then let hubby take the presents to the post office to send out.

Now, years later, M.H.'s taller than I am. Fortunately, she's also more organized than I am. She's a mom, wife, sister, sister-in-law, artist...a lot. She does them all well...

Happy Birthday, kiddo.