The Squooshy

My mama turned 70 today.  She doesn’t look it–not even a little.  Not even close.  And, naturally, this is to be celebrated–but not by her, but by me.  Why?  Because, well,  I’m her daughter and I am pretty sure I have these same don’t-look-seventy-but-actually-I-am genes and I try to make everything about me.  So, yay future-me!  God bless us everyone!

When you have a birthday that ends in a zero…you can’t help but think about where you have come from and where you are headed.  When the first digit is small, you think more about the to and less about the from.  What will I be?  Will I be successful?  Where will I live?  Who will I love?  And, one day, out of nowhere, it shifts.  Unknowns become known; some better than you could have ever imagined, some underwhelming or downright devastating (looking at you, freaking hair that grows on my chin).  And it occurs to you that more of the  milestones you imagined as a kid might be behind you than in front of you.

Balls.  How did I become an old lady?

But back to mama…

Being a mom is harder than I ever imagined; sometimes, it’s crushing (like, chin-hair devastation). But it’s also richer and fuller and more breathtaking than I ever thought it could be.  And the more I do it, the more I think about how it was done to me.  How was I ‘mommed’?  Am I saying things to my kids that my mom said to me and her mom said to her?  Will my kids tease me mercilessly about my momisms like my siblings and I have been doing to my poor mom since high school?

I hope so…

Mom wasn’t perfect.  ‘Fashionable’ or not, she did wear double-knit.  She bought me a cabbage patch doll waaaaaay after they stopped being cool (like, yeeeeeears later mom, c’mon, really?).  But the thing I remember most about how she mommed was the intentional listening.  She heard me.  She took time for me and advocated for me–sometimes fiercely.  Even when children were supposed to be seen and not heard, I was heard.  When adults were around, the world did not revolve around me, but I was considered.  She did not placate me.  She offered me the same level of respect that she offered to adults.  When she parented me, she did not ignore my feelings and replace them with hers.  My feelings were important…to her.  This is my mom’s legacy.  This is the tapestry that runs through the generations of our family because it is what I aspire to give my kids every day.

I’m not perfect either.  I have a potty mouth and a temper and I think farts and that’s-what-she-said jokes are hilarious.  And I have been known to indulge in that kind of humor somewhat indiscriminately.  I mess up, like, a LOT.  But I hope that one day, when I turn 70 (and totes look like I’m 50), my kids will say that I mommed them like my mom mommed me.  Happy Birthday Mom.