On turning 33
Until recently, I always approached my birthday as a day to celebrate myself. In my youngest years, it was all about the gifts, which were preferably Barbie dolls. As a preteen, it was all about the number of other squealing preteen girls my parents would allow to sleep over, and as my twenties hit, birthdays were about dressing up in my best “five steps away from looking like a slut” outfit and trying to take all the drinks and shots coming my way without ending the night passed out in my own puke. Today on my birthday, as I take another step into my thirties, I am thinking of my mother, the woman who brought me into the world.
Now that I’m two kids deep into this motherhood thing, I have more love, respect and gratitude for her than ever before. When I think of everything she did and continues to do for us…I’m humbled. For as far back as I can remember, she woke up early to make us breakfast before heading to work, came home from work and whipped up dinner, dried tears, acted as tutor, etc… and how did I repay her? Often, by being a good kid. But there are dozens and dozens and dozens of times when I was a complete brat. And now, at a more wiser stage in my life, I wish I could tell that young, completely clueless girl to take it easy on her mom, that she’s juggling a lot and the only time she drops the word “no” in your path, it truly is for your own good, not just to piss you off. I remember my mom and dad trying to explain to me, after missing my curfew yet again, that one day I would understand why they were so upset when I waltzed in the door 30 minutes late without a phone call. And that day has come.
I get it now. I understand what my mom may have been feeling as she cleaned up vomit from bathrooms and bedspreads at 3 a.m., her annoyance when I fought her endlessly on cleaning my room, her sacrifice for my happiness when she and my dad allowed me to invite 17 girls to sleep over for my birthday the night before she had to give a presentation, the heartbreak she felt when I defended my asshole boyfriend to her for the one millionth time…the list is endless.
So today, on my 33rd birthday, I want to thank my mother (and of course, my father) for being just that…for mothering me. For teaching me how to mother my own, a skill I will struggle to master for the rest of my life. But because of her example, I know I’m off to pretty good start. Thank you, Mom. Thank you for putting up with all the crap my own kids put me through now, and all the crap I still have coming my way. I love you.
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In hindsight, I think we all relate to this a little bit. The thing for me dealing with my parents has been realizing that parents are actually people – and that their gifts, flaws, personalities, etc., are all wrapped up in their experiences – much of those experiences with their parents! Good sentiment.
I couldn’t agree more, Fred!