After a month of sorting out the confusing alphabet soup of Medicare enrollment, I careened into my 65th year on this amazing planet. Oddly, this birthday was not as treacherous to me, as the one five years earlier. I guess I’ve reconciled myself to the sexagenary decade. The current state of the human condition helps. I’m no longer so eager to see how things turn out.
What occurred to me on this day was not the miracle of me or my arrival, but the miracle of my mother. It was all her doing that I am here. It was her nine months of eating carefully, staving off nausea, sleeping under the weight of a bowling ball. It was her heaving, grunting, breathing, screaming, pushing, contracting, contorting, cursing and crying that shoved me off into what would become my amazing journey. Why do we celebrate our own births on birth days? It seems we should be celebrating our mothers’ act of birthing us. It is our mothers who have done all the heavy lifting. Thank you Mother!