My Mom would have been 88 this past Monday. That means that we have been without her for 22 years. She has missed whole lifetimes of grandkids. When I get sad about Mom, I remember how lucky we were that we got to have her at all, and I start letting my head run down memory lane. Mom was amazing in many ways, but just couldn’t possibly be good at everything. I try to remember this as I reflect on my shortfalls as a mom. Is there some sort of genetic predisposition to being bad at celebrating birthdays? Mom would just make a cake and collect whatever kids were in the backyard to sing to us. It was never actually on our birthday. It was when she had time to make a cake. Frequently, there were a few birthdays celebrated that same day, using that same cake. Everyone got a paper thin slice of cake. So, I wonder if I just was not traumatized by that, so I never developed the skills to host a super fabulous birthday party for my kids. I had a couple  good parties for my kids through the years. My kids remember them, likely because they were the exception, not the rule. My Mom wasn’t into birthday gifts either. We picked a gift from her garage sale collection, out of a paper bag. You could get a slinky (that was a GREAT gift), or a container of play dough (not so good), a Robert Ludlum novel (awesome!) or a dictionary (ugh!).

I think my mom could only power up for one big gift giving extravaganza a year, so she focused on Christmas: one time a year for everyone! Christmas was always amazing, but it was especially amazing since I was one of the younger kids: cross country skis one year, downhill skis the next year. The older kids never experienced such expensive gifts. But they also didn’t have to be pushed to last in the dinner line every night, or sit in the “baby” seats at the dinner table, down by Mom and Dad. Mom made a fantastic lasagna, but I don’t think I realized how good it was until I was older because I only got the overcooked edges of the lasagna for most of my life, since the boys would scoop out the delicious middle first, leaving the crusty parts to the young kids. It’s like we grew up in the same house, but with vastly different experiences. 

The older kids used to say that we younger kids could get away with anything, but I beg to differ. I’ve heard the stories of shenanigans of the older pack. Mom and Dad were so tired raising little kids that the older ones got away with WAY more. We had the same rules, but the rules were actually enforced when I was growing up, since Mom and Dad weren’t exhausted with babies. You’re welcome. The one time I totaled the car, I came home really late (police were called, etc.), and Mom and Dad were standing at the top of the stairs when I came in with Phil after driving what remained of the Plymouth Horizon home after the accident. I burst out in tears, told them the story (black ice, oncoming car), and apologized profusely for ruining the car. Dad just asked if anyone was hurt (miraculously no) and said for us to all go to bed. He didn’t even want to look at the car. He said, “It will still be there in the morning.” Little did I realize that it had happened that a car wasn’t there in the morning. Larry! So a tin can of a car, without a front bumper or a left turn signal, dragging some things along the ground wasn’t the worst that my folks had experienced. The older kids put them through more, and got away with more than that.

So maybe it’s time to revisit some of those “Growing Up Big” stories, in honor of Mom’s 88th birthday. I miss her, but most of the time it’s in that nostalgic, bring a smile to your face type of way. I wish my kids knew her, but they know of her through my stories. So, buckle up! The next few weeks we will travel down memory lane. 

Have a great week everyone!