Mom's 69th

A bit ago I had started a blog post about my mom. Maybe it's fitting that I complete it today, on what would be her 69th birthday. I used to think that if I were to read the obituaries, and someone was said to be 69, I wouldn't feel badly that they had died. I thought, "That's old enough, their kids are old and grown so it's not that sad." Ha. It's still sad, I think.

Here's how I think of you, mom, in my day-to-day life:

When I put lotion on my hands, I always rub the excess on my neck. I remember you telling me that hands and necks are the sure signs of a woman's age.

When I watch Parenthood, I think about Christina's breast cancer, Hattie's age, her being away at college on the east coast. It's a fm,Ira sounding story. Although a different ending. And I think it's a show we would have watched together.

When I am sewing or doing embroidery or crafting of any kind, I think about how I've probably become the daughter you always wanted. I'd like to believe we'd be BFF's and you'd be instrumental in helping me raise my daughter.

If we eat salmon for dinner, I remember that you taught me to cook it in the microwave when in a crunch.

Sometimes when Alex says "I love you" I say "I love you more," and I'm reminded of how we used to race to say "mostarooni."

Francie has your eyes. Everyone says they are mine, but I think they look just like yours. And sometimes when I look at her I feel like she should be wearing glasses, just like how I thought you looked funny when you didn't have your glasses on. I just hope she has better eyesight.

When I comment on the appearance of a nice house or pretty tree while driving in the car, I'm reminded of how you would insist I look out the window.

Also, I never, ever have my shoes on and my purse ready when we arrive at the destination. Like mother like daughter.

Now that you're not here to wake me, Francie has taken on the role of Nap Nazi.

You always used to compliment my legs, for being strong, and now sometimes when I glance in the mirror while holding my daughter, I'm grateful for having a strong, if imperfect, body to cart her around efficiently.

Occasionally I ask Alex to verify whether my soda is diet or regular, as you once did.

I think about how proud you'd be that I still am a devout sender of the annual Christmas card. And that I send notes and thank-yous via snail mail.

There are, of course, a hundred other ways you are with me each day. Happy 69th birthday.