Happy Birthday, Mama

Today my mother would have been 73 years old, had she made it this far. When I was a kid, I used to wonder why she never seemed to be bothered by my cuts and scrapes and falls and such. It bothered me until I realized I’m a raging hypochondriac of sorts, so no wonder. Maybe I became that as a way to get her attention. I dunno. I’m screwed up on so many levels, there’s no way to really pinpoint a cause.

Tonight I had a little insight, tho. I have a friend who worries desperately if her pet does anything out of the ordinary, and is scared he’s gonna die if he eats a bug. I have another friend whose dog broke a tooth, and it never crossed his mind to take her to the vet to make sure she wasn’t in pain. He didn’t even know about it until I told him. I’ve had somewhere in the neighborhood of 35 cats over my lifetime, maybe even more, and I have to admit, I think I’m jaded.

I looked out the window to watch the kittens playing in the yard, and little Lewis the Black was spitting great huge gobs of foam out of his mouth. My first thought was not panic, but I did kick into mom mode. I ran through the checklist.

• Does he look sick? OK, OTHER than the foam.
• Does he look scared, like it hurts or burns or it seems to be causing him discomfort?
• Is he having any other symptoms?

The answer to all of the above was NO. He was spitting the stuff out and shaking it off, and looked like he was wondering how long it was gonna keep him from getting back in the games. I let it go. I figured he ate a bug or tried to eat the wrong frog, and he was paying the price with drool. He’s fine.

Which brings me back to my mother. I wanted her when she was least available, like Ivy wanting to snuggle right after I get home from teaching, when I have a lot to do. Mama worked her fingers to the bone for me. I wish I had one tenth of her work ethic. We were poor, only I never knew HOW poor. She kept me from knowing. Since she was a nurse, she could handle most of the little stuff, and the two times I really probably needed stitches, I was able to talk her out of it. I’ve always wonder why she caved so easily those two times, and I guess I always will.

She once told me that sometimes our children don’t turn out like we’d hoped. I think there were many times she wished she hadn’t had a child, that maybe she got stuck with a broken one and hadn’t a clue how to fix it. She tried, bless her soul. She tried.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I miss you.