I have long forgiven you for the Irish Spring.

I was a fluke. One of those biological combinations determined to come into the world regardless of all that planning and precaution you used. You were thrilled even after thoroughly explained the risks. You prayed for a pregnancy not nearly as difficult as my older brother provided. Well, you quasi-received your wish. I was a much easier pregnancy but as you brought me home in that sweet yellow number, you were unaware I would be a far sassier child. You knew you were in for a long stretch when at age four I told your mother’s friend she called him  retarded when she actually said he was retired. And for the next decade (or two) there was not much of a break.

But I might have inherited that trait from you. Remember when we played Taboo and the word you were supposed to guess was “ATTORNEY” so when one of your other children gave you the clue “What is JennyMac?” The answer you provided, FLAT, was incorrect.

But I inherited a little bit of no nonsense from you too. Recall when I was about six and told TW to shove it even though, clearly, I had NO IDEA what it meant and only repeated what someone else in our house stated once. You told me to come into the house and get my mouth washed out. NO WAY, LADY. So I took off running. Umm, you started running too. Without even a pause for breath, you basically mocked me as you went running past me and said, “You have to come back sometime.” And I did. And wasn’t the embarrassment you shed upon me having outrun me enough? Did you have to actually put Irish Spring in my yap? NO. And did you have to select the largest green bar of it you could?

And when in high school, I had a gaggle of friends over and you asked me to do something or else. I asked, “OR WHAT?” You promptly raced in that room and with a swing kick to the back of my legs, took me down and then pinned me and said, "THAT IS WHAT." Damn woman, I had no idea such a powerhouse was hiding in your tiny 5’4 body.  I should have learned my lesson with the soaping incident. 

And after moving away to college and then grad school, coming home was still a favorite. To our crazy nights out with your girlfriends as we tore up that dance floor at the dirty blues bar, to chatting at Cutter’s over cocktails, the history of our memories are an awesome string of technicolor vignettes.

We have laughed so hard we have cried. And I have cried so hard at times, there was nothing left to do but laugh. Anytime something has truly been disjointed in my life, you were the person to call. The instant I heard your voice, I could hide nothing. And in that narrow space of time, you knew before I uttered a sentence that I needed you.   

As a freshman, a girl I had known my entire life was killed on the way to school. My Father said, “People die, Jen.” TRUE but no offense, DP, not exactly from the Institute of HALLMARK. But you knew I would be overwhelmed and likely incapable of processing something so big and raw. This was pre-cell phone era so instinctively, you left your office, and called my StepDad. The two of you made haste driving to my school to search the faces of 1500 kids until you found the one that belonged to you. With vivid clarity, I can remember not only exactly where I was when I looked up and saw you both but also, the tremendous sense of belief that you could help me make sense of it. And if not make sense, you would alleviate the level of awfulness surrounding and choking everything that day. 

I am not the only one who knows that you often leave people better than you found them.

But, in addition to that, it was every time you colored the sugar on holidays, or made us pancakes for dinner (which we loved.) It was being in the first row for every concert, every game, every talent show, every speech, and every event. Making whale pillows with us at my elementary school (in retrospect, you should have helped me more, mine was quite scary) to making every birthday feel like a national holiday.  All examples of how easily you demonstrated our importance to you.

Growing up, I had everything I needed (except a bigger chest) and as an adult, we discovered it is ok to have differences of opinion. I know I have made you laugh, made you cry, made you proud, and likely have provoked you to wonder if we are, in fact, related.

But your support and belief in my ability to achieve anything will cling to me for life. Everyone needs someone to champion them along, and I have no bigger champion of me than you.  You once asked me in a moment of your own personal entanglement, how I became a stronger person than you. I am not necessarily stronger but if I had to answer it is because I had a Mom like you, and you did not. But those window panes of adversity you burned through with tenacity. And a vow to ensure your children knew they are incredibly loved. I promise you, we know. And no one loves us more than you do.

And I have long forgiven you for the Irish Spring. As you have forgiven me for "borrowing" your black pearl necklace and losing it. Wait, you knew that right?

Everyone whose life you touch is lucky. For your wide generosity, that lowdown sass you predominantly keep under wraps, to your ability to decide after age 55 to take up Equestrianism as a new hobby, you make being over 60 years old look better than I have ever seen it. I am certain Cher will ring you for some tips. This picture from my wedding is a perfect example and you were the most beautiful person there.

Today is a great day to be celebrating you. And what began as a fluke for you, turned into incredible serendipity for me. Happy Birthday Mom. Both internally and externally, you are more gorgeous than ever.