To My Mother on Her Birthday

People have been mistaking us for sisters since I was twelve. I've always loved that. Remember the guy at Dillards who asked us if we would be models for his photo shoot? How we laughed and rolled our eyes in that way I learned from you.

And I love it when my friends whisper to me how pretty you are when you leave the room.

"I know," I say. And then in my head, I add, "I sure hope I age as well!"

And now I'm at an age that I can remember you being. By 33 you'd given birth to all five of us kids, I think. And while Dad was doing his full-time school, work and church duties, you were keeping the family together. You were turning food storage gluten and wheat into edible meals during those lean years. Transforming empty refrigerator boxes into playhouses with curtains and wallpaper when there was no room for toys in the budget. Coaxing eggplant out of the desert clay and then coaxing us even harder to eat it. Canning, juicing, sewing, PTA-ing and teaching us to walk in the light.

Often as I watch the other kids raising their small families, I think about the enormous task you took on as a new convert and recent college graduate. To have all five of us so quickly and to live so far from your family.

Strength has always been one of the qualities I admire most in you, Mom.

It's what others admire, too, I think. Along with your tenderness and uncanny ability to put another's needs before your own.

I love telling people you're my mother. They always treat me better when they find out I'm yours. And in those moments, I find myself wondering if I'll ever be like that. If I could be the kind of person that would inspire someone to treat my loved ones a little better just because they're mine.

We still get mistaken for sisters. And more and more when I look in the mirror, I catch a glimpse of you. Stray grays sprout ever more frequently along my hairline and remind me of the money you offered us to pluck yours. A dime for every gray. And if we plucked a non-gray hair, we owed you a dime.

It's not just the hair. It's the wrinkles around my eyes and the strange little smirk the camera catches on my face when I'm not quite smiling. And it's always when I look at my hands. Lined fingers, bony knuckles, prominent tendons and blood vessels. Good for making pies, rocking babies and unclogging drains, just like you taught me.

Recently I asked you why you had all five of us kids so quickly, when you were so young. Five children in seven years took such a toll on your body in it's prime. And it must have taken an even greater toll on your sanity.

You said, "I wanted to give you all my best years."

You did Mom. And you still are.

I love you.