Today is my mom’s birthday.
And my mom? She IS the real MVP.
Many moons ago, on a May 5th much like today, I was an adorable and obnoxious child (I believe 4 years old), and we were celebrating mom’s birthday.
For some reason (probably me asking, “whose birthday is next?” like the nosy brat I am) my mom informed me that of the 5 of us (mom, dad, sister, brother, me) my birthday was next after hers.
In my silly little head, I interpreted this to mean my birthday would be the next day.
(It’s not. It’s in July. Like I’d be anything other than an emotional little Cancer.)
I woke up on May 6th, guns-a-blazin.
“It’s my birthday!” I was so sure of it.
I rushed downstairs ready to rip open presents and be doted upon.
(Pretty similar to how I wake up each morning, now.)
And my dear unfortunate mother had to be the one to tell this dumb, excited young daughter of hers that it was, in fact, not her birthday.
WHO HAS TO TELL THEIR OWN DAUGHTER IT’S NOT THEIR BIRTHDAY?
Ugh, I really am the worst.
I have a distinct memory of myself sobbing, and mom kneeling on the floor, on my level, holding and consoling me.
My poor, wonderful mom.
And yet, this has remained the theme of my life.
Me getting some lofty notion in my head. Realizing I was wrong. Having a meltdown. Mom, getting on my level, holding and consoling me.
And no matter how many times we’ve gone through this cycle, she’s always there.
(Personally, I probably would’ve disowned me a long, long time ago.)
My biggest cheerleader.
My most-hugged person (besides dad.)
The one who knows when I need a reality check, gives it to me, and then takes me to the bank to cash it.
The only one who will ever truly understand how weird I actually am.
The one who will always encourage me to keep being that little weirdo.
The one who loves me so much that she’d hold and console me every May 6th if she had to.
The one who will always belly laugh with me at Carl the Snowman:
I haven’t always made it easy, but…I’ve made it interesting?
You are amazing. Happy Birthday.
I love you.