So, this one’s for my mom, who, 45 years and nearly 24 hours ago went into the hospital, ready to give birth for the fourth time. With two girls and a boy at home, and she felt it necessary to hide the fact that what she really wanted was one more girl. So, when the doctor asked, “what are you hoping for,” my superstitious mother said, “a boy.” And then, when I came out, fully not a boy, my giddy mother had to work hard to convince that same stupid doctor who asked such a question in the first place that truly, honestly, she was fine with her fourth baby being a girl.
This is for my mother, strength personified, who appears to handle all adversity without caving or crumbling, doing the work that needs to be done. Not without bitching, entirely, but still doing it.
This is for my mother, my poor widowed mother, who passed along her dark humor and her political outrage. Who passed on her brown hair and her love of babies. Who teaches me over and over and over again what loving your children looks like, sounds like, is like.
With a boatload of gratitude, this is for my mother. Happy birhtday to me. Thank you for this life.