My mother’s birthday is on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. This year I managed not to call her at 5:30am or a day late (I have some trouble with calculating time differences, especially since Taiwan doesn’t participate in daylight saving time).
Isn’t she gorgeous? My Mom has aged incredibly well and I hope I look as good when I am 35, too. Why, this photo was taken just last year!
All kidding aside, though, my Mom is a beautiful person inside and out. She had me when she was 24, which means I am now 11 years old. I’m kidding, I’m 29. I recently told my husband that I am now at the age my Mom was when I began to form solid memories of her.
When my brother and I were little, we had two pet fancy rats named Brandon and Jason. Brandon was a little scallawag and he got out of his cage one night. We looked everywhere: in the closets, under the sofa, around the curtains, behind the TV stand, in the kitchen. I spread bits of food around in an attempt to lure him out. Finally my bedtime rolled around and I went to sleep, still crying. In the middle of the night, my mother woke me up.
“He was under the bed,” she said. Curled up in her hands, like a furry little croissant, was Brandon, sleeping peacefully. It was probably the happiest moment of my little 6-year-old life and I’m still touched that my Mom understood how attached I was to Brandon and Jason. I realized with a start the other day, my Mom was about my age back then. Wow!
My Mom and I have pretty different personalities (she’s very methodical and efficient, I have no idea where any of my three sets of keys currently are), but I like to think I inherited her poise and graciousness (or at least the ability to fake her poise and graciousness!).
Thank for letting me grow into my own person, supporting me through the hard times and not getting angry that one time I set the oven on fire. I love you Mom!