Here we are, January 22nd. It’s Mom’s 86th birthday, an absolute milestone for her bloodline. She’s already out lived both of her parents. Her Mom died at 78 years old and her Dad at 82 years old. By today’s standards, it doesn’t seem very long, but I guess in her family line, those ages are pretty old.
We went to bed last night to a fairly powerful snowstorm and woke up to a blanket of white outside. As she woke up this morning, I wished her a happy birthday. Of course, she didn’t know how old she is and she didn’t seem particularly interested in that little detail either. For the most part, to her it was just another day and another year older. Sad to think that you get to the point in life where your birthday, your special day, doesn’t mean much to you. Maybe it’s the dementia that makes her feel that her birthday is a non-event? Even though my birthday isn’t largely celebrated, I still feel some sort of excitement with that particular day. It’s probably human nature, at least that’s what I believe it to be. Everybody on the planet has their special day! One day that is more special than any other day of the year, the one day where “they” are brought to the top of things, feeling that this is the day I came into the world. A day to look back and reflect on the years and experiences of the past.
Because of the snow and the long ride home last night in the storm, I was unable to stop for flowers, so I told her to expect some pretty flowers tomorrow. She liked that idea and then proceeded to head out to the kitchen for her daily raid of the cookie jar. That makes it a good day to her…swiping a few cookies. Happy birthday Mom!
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