While receiving a good number of birthday wishes, a few gifts, some treats, and a lunch date with a coworker I also count as a good friend, the people in my life have all reminded me that it’s MY day. Relax, they tell me. Splurge. Treat yourself. Order take-out and indulge in a long bath. Even my kids instructed me to do something fun for my birthday, and then announced that would be ice skating with them.
Good ideas, indeed!
However, amid the well wishes, cards, and cake, the thought occurred to me that perhaps the person who should enjoy a bit of rest and rejuvenation in honor of this day is the lady responsible for my very existence. The one who lovingly and dutifully carried me for nine months and then, when I decided I’d much rather stay put where it was warm and cozy, endured my procrastination until she was finally induced. My mother.
I do love May. I love the Earth springing to new life with green grass and the riot of color the flowers bring. The days are milder and the outdoors offer a host of new activities. And while this bright and beautiful month may be the perfect time of year to honor our mothers, I can’t help but to chuckle when I think to myself that my mom had no such weather the day I graced the world with my entrance.
January in Minnesota is no friend to pregnant women. It’s cold. It’s icy and slippery. We have ice storms, sleet, slush, and snow. And for expectant moms who already battle an off-kilter sense of balance, pulling on boots and wading through snow is no picnic. For a nine-month pregnant woman, retrieving the mail at the curbside becomes a risky endeavor. Of course, she may just have to shovel a path there first!
Most of my siblings had the good sense to be born in warmer, snow-free months. Months like April, May, June, July and August. But two of my brothers and I were winter babies. We weren’t born on days that saw tulips opening or butterflies flitting from flower to flower. There was no lemonade on the front porch as the sun went down or children flying kites or racing around the yard with sparklers. There was snow, slippery roads, wind chills, and chapped hands. There was shoveling and snow blowing and waking up early to see if the school-aged children had a snow day or not. For my mom, there was bundling up three boys, ages 2 to 5, in snowsuits and parkas and boots and ski masks while working around a protruding belly.
I have two children of my own. While their birthdays are definitely their own special days, each year I remember very clearly the day each was born. I recall very specific details, right down to the fabric design on the nurses' scrubs. I know the same is true for my mom. She can still rattle off the hospital room numbers she was assigned to for each of us. Yes, children's birthdays are to be celebrated and remembered. But for moms, these milestones call to mind the days (or nights) these little ones came into the world.
Each January, when my birthday rolls around, I usually contend with a healthy dose of typical Minnesota winter weather. It's a nuisance and leaves plans hanging a bit. But after becoming a mother myself, I can't help but to be reminded of the love and self-sacrifice a mother braves to bring a baby into this world. And when the wind howls and the temperatures dip into the negatives, I think of the extra struggle winter moms dutifully endure.
I think perhaps my mom is the one who deserves the cake!
