Happy Birthday, Mamma!

I’m terrible with birthdays. I’d forget my own if it wasn’t printed on my driver’s license. When I was twelve I forgot my Mother’s birthday and didn’t remember until I sauntered in the house at 9pm and saw her in the kitchen cutting the cake she had bought for herself. Oh, THAT didn’t feel good. At that point saying, “Oh, right…..Happy Birthday, Mom” really didn’t make it a more festive occasion. And I knew she was hurt, but instead of showing it she just cut me a piece of cake and told me there was milk in the fridge. THAT felt even worse! It was the worst cake I ever ate in my life and it wasn’t because I didn’t love chocolate. So, ever since that terrible day I’ve always paid special attention to her birthday, Mother’s Day, and Valentines Day and made sure I’m on point. Well, my Mom’s b-day passed this weekend and thanks to several notes to myself, including one on my arm in black magic marker, I was ready.

I asked my Mom, “Hey, would you like to go to this new restaurant I heard about in Providence? Its all-you-can-eat Lobster.”

“No.”, she replied in an unenthused tone.

“Ok, how about I scoop you and Dad up and bring you into town for a show? Lion King's here.”

Again, she simply replied, “No.”

After several other rejected suggestions I got frustrated and said, “O.k., well I’m coming down to see you that day so if you’re not home I’ll be waiting on the porch….and if it starts to rain I’m gonna break in through the garage.”

She gave a soft laugh and said, “Your Father will be home, but I get off work at nine.”

(My Mother is a borderline shoppaholic and values every minute of overtime she can get.)

When 9pm came around I was waiting at my Mother’s house with a card, a photo album all wrapped up with a bow, one dozen red roses, one bouquet of mixed flowers, and a carrot cake. I did everything besides rent a clown, after all, my Mother has me. When she arrived home she walked through the door with a surprised look and a big smile took over her face.

It’s like this almost every year….this “I don’t want you to do anything” game that we play. And it’s very clear to me that my Mother and I are both equally stubborn. In fact, my stubbornness comes from her.