Celebrating Life

On my 30th birthday, a certain male in my family bought 30 roses with 30 vases.  I woke up to find them all over the house.  He also made a fantastic chocolate chip cookie cake, since I prefer cookies to cake any day.

Then my family came over and everyone stared at the Patriots contend in the playoffs, cookie cake in hand, while I kept the kids from consuming the rest of the ice cream.

That's probably the birthday memory that makes me chuckle the most, both for its stellar and absurd elements.  You see... I pretty much straight-up _hate_ football... I really wish I didn't.  I want to be happily screaming at a TV like my hubby.  But outside of a personal amazing story about one of the players who wants to win in memory of his mother's cousin's friend or something... I can't care.

In large part, my football apathy probably stems from having no TV growing up and never getting used to hours watching absurdly overpaid guys fight over a ball like squirrels over a nut.

My ignorance of the sport extended into college, when I was invited to a Superbowl Party.  I inhaled my tea laughing.  Laughed harder when I was told that was the name of the final football competition of the year.

"Okay, I know what the World Series is... But football has super BOWLS?  I'd prefer a plate.  That's ridiculous people...  I mean, I know I was homeschooled and all--it's hilarious--but I don't know how you expect me to believe that..."

So, I was like (really) not raised with football.  At all.

But now that I "get it"... I still don't.  I mean, the players aren't even from the region that they are playing for... we're all like "Go Pats!" over here when half of them are from CA... sigh.  And... I've just lost all my male readers... Guys, I'm trying!  I sit through at least 10 minutes of a fourth quarter every season, I do.  Be impressed... (?)

Maybe I just need the right kind of beer and wings?  I will accept recommendations...

Speaking of beer: second standout birthday memory is how I celebrated my 21st birthday at college: no one knew about it, and I went to classes as usual. (I think single girls got the serenades; once you were "dating" that didn't happen). Just before midnight when my birthday ended, my (then) boyfriend (who had been busy all day) showed up with a warm Corona and said,

"Oh yeah: happy birthday!  You can drink this now."  :D

In case my football comments have incensed or alarmed you too much: after a day of commemorating the fallen, today's topic is (actually) on new life: birthday memories.

Given my past experiences and the wisdom gleaned through my advancing years, I now plan my own birthdays.  It takes serious planning to make January happy.  Your presents are wrapped in leftover red and green, everyone is exhausted by Christmas, gloomy about winter, and generally "not feeling it." I thought I had it bad until I met my husband, whose birthday is on a worse day: January 3rd.  Which is "Christmas vacation is over get back to work day" every year.  People born in January should simply move the day to June, there should be a legal way to do that....

Okay, okay... I'm supposed to tell you my favorite birthday memories... I remember my third birthday. (I do!)  My mom is definitely a "party person."  At the time, she had put a large sombrero on the ground and we were doing "The Mexican Hat Dance."  And pin the tail on the donkey.  Cake and ice cream, always with ice cream.

And that's pretty much how I celebrated my birthday, always with a family party, until I went to college.  Christendom had a tradition at the time that ladies were serenaded at midnight on their birthdays.  So the guys would get permission to be out after curfew (yeah, we had curfew), and troupe en masse across to the girls' side of campus and start singing under her dorm window.

As the bookish, fresh out of homeschool freshman that I was, bedtime was at nine.  I was sound asleep when my roommate woke me up in a frenzy of excitement, telling me: "There are ALL THESE BOYS OUT THE WINDOW COME LOOK!"

Confusion turning to alarm, I blanched, grabbed a bathrobe, checked the mirror, and looked two stories down at a crowd of young men singing happy birthday to me.  I just blushed and smiled while my roommate hooted happily.

I'm grinning now thinking about it.

To make up for the dreary month, I now just tell people when my birthday is...  used to think that was obnoxious but now, I mean, let them eat cake, right?  After years of going through my birthday without telling anyone what day it was and, despite myself, drowning a wee bit in self-pity... you know, silence is pointless.  My birthday is January 20, inaugural day.  Mark your calendars: the forecast is for freezing rain and floods of slush, so we're going to meet at Dave and Busters or lazer tag or a spa or something.  :D  You will likely find me wearing my kids' dollar store medallion "Birthday Girl!" and passing out cupcakes.  Cuz that's how I'm gonna roll from here out...

We should all celebrate the day God brought us into the world, with our moms working really hard for that too...  It's a big deal to begin the missions we are given, and that's what we did that day.  I love celebrating birthdays.

And I always give my mom a rose on my birthday.

Me, almost 3, with my mom and rose

Because seriously, I didn't do much back then... Birthdays should totally occur with "Birth-giving" days, giving a nod to the ladies who made the day possible.  For real.

Today I'm blogartying over fellow writer Kimberly Smith, who is graciously hosting this month's challenge here.  To you Kimberly, and everyone whose birthday I've missed:  I'm so glad to be sharing 2013 with you!  May you always know how very precious you are, how much you are loved, and how vitally important your God-given purpose is in this world.  I celebrate you today.

"You are precious and honored in My sight." Isaiah 43:4

Linked to Being a Wordsmith, Found the Marbles, and The Fontenot Four

To Dance With No Music

This is my mother. 

This is her with my kids. :)

They are at a park, and simply decided to dance. So my mom hums something, and they do.

Growing up, I did not know Shakespeare said that "all the world's a stage." In my family, I simply knew it to be true.  At any moment, my mom could break into a jig or a song and require me to join. Wherever we were.  Whoever was watching. And I always did, shy as I was, because I knew it made her proud.

I'm not saying it was not sometimes more than a little embarrassing. My humble piano, recorder, and even guitar skills (of which I knew five chords) were trotted out at every nursing home.  Company over for dinner was always treated to some sort of performance by the Mitchell kids. "So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen" etc... remember that song? Yeah, did that every time we kids went off to bed and left my mom and the other adults to chat. Oh no, I'm quite serious.  Thankfully, there are no pictures...

My mom's confidence spurred me on through auditions, acting in plays, performing in choirs. Whenever I sang--and even now, as recently as this Mother's Day in church--my mom signs an "L" to me. Nope, not for "loser"... It meant "loud" as in "sing louder!" :). And for her, I will sing a forte.  She gave me the ability to face life with song, with confidence, optimism, and joy.

My mother and I are different. I'm a bookworm... My mom claims she does not like to read, though she frequently researches things on Google.  I'm not sure she knows about blogging yet, and she still does not trust Facebook. :) Yet, my love of reading is from her. I can still hear the cadence of her voice as she read me endless Madeline's growing up, sitting on her lap on the old tweed couch. She wanted me to love something because she knew was good, even though she didn't love it herself. 

My mother and I are the same. We eat to live. Mind you, she can cook well--no one could beat her chicken cutlets or lasagna, and her chocolate chip cookies have won competitions.  But the usual fare of my youth?  A can of green beans, instant potatoes and extremely well-done hamburg was a perfectly acceptable dinner... Come to think of it, how about just grab an apple and forego the whole cooking stuff altogether?  I married into a family that was horrified at my culinary techniques.  One I'm still teased about: Drop block of frozen ground beef on a frying pan.  Scrap off meat as it cooks and thaws.  Yes, this results in some burnt bits with medium rare hamburger.  I was trained in more acceptable defrosting techniques.  My dirty secret?  I prefer my mom's original way to this day, burnt bits as a spice that remind me of the home I grew up in.  

My mother taught me what was most important: to thank God for everything, in everything, through everything.  When I sulked during adolescent, my consequence was to write what I could be grateful for in a "Blessing Book."  I kept it from the age of 13 till I started this blog.  :)  My mom taught me to cherish children: to treat them as the individuals they are, who can't help being young.  She taught me to love one's family, to have compassion, to not cry over spilled milk; when I broke something, she would help me sweep up the fragments while telling me not to worry about it. I learned that women did not have to be squeamish.  When I got sick, she would hold my hair back till things were over, telling me I was going to feel so much better soon.  She imparted a love of animals: to my father's dismay, we would regularly seek out and rescue birds for mom, usually pigeons. I remember being up late one night with her, bathing a fat bird that had gotten tar all over, gently scrubbing its feathers with old toothbrushes.  We would release them later, holding hands in pride and some wistfulness as they took to the sky.  

Yesterday was my mom's birthday. Having retired from teaching some years back from the school she taught at with my father--from whom she is inseparable--she now spends most of her days indoors: at church, then to the nursing home for her mother-in-law, followed by visiting her homebound dad.  But knowing how she loves to be outside, my sister and I prepared a picnic. Someday, we hope to finally get her to Ireland, her lifelong dream, but for now, a day by the water with grandkids will do.

Now that I'm a mother myself, I appreciate my own so much more. I understand why she was the last to sit and the first to rise form dinner. I admire how she hosted so many parties, so readily, at the drop of a hat.  I laugh thinking about how she made dad take us camping. I honor her childlike spirit, the one that believes the good in everyone and encourages it to bloom.  I love that she taught me to make my own music and dance despite the world, and that I will pass this on to my children.

"Awake, my soul!  Awake, lyre and harp!  I will awake the dawn." Psalm 57:8

Before I turn in...

As a teen, it was an amazing and prayer-filled adventure to sacrifice sleep and warmth and meals to go on the bus to D.C. for the March for Life. In college, it was a shorter trip and a guaranteed yearly privilege to join in. My freshmen year I was chosen to help hold the huge college banner... I think I was right about the "M" for March in that 1997 photo... Quite proud, in an awkwardly knotted white scarf.

This year, I'm at home in my own daily march for the lives of my children, the mundane duties of three meals a day, baths, books, and teeth brushing. While someone less exciting, it is very much an honor to be on this side of things too. I could not be more proud and grateful for the gift of motherhood.

Thanks for having me, mom!- TLC