My mum`s birthday, as long as I can remember, has never failed to be an eventful day.
It has heralded my first solo shopping trip (to the neighbouring Zellers store, to buy a 35ml bottle of mauve Berries of the Woods body lotion),
provided me with my first serious acting role (in order to get my mom to the location of her surprise birthday party, I phoned in a panic, pretending that I had gotten my period for the first time whilst serving at a church banquet. I was so successful in this role that my mom rushed out of the house without my dad, leaving him to run behind the car all the way to the church, arriving without enough breath to shout Surprise! along with the rest of us),
set the stage for a trip to Rome (planned in two days after a series of very serendipitous colliding comments between my cousin and I),
and so on and so forth.
This year, so far, it has marked the dissolution of my fear of writing the Résultats et discussion section of a lab report, my discovery that cyclohexane has the precise odour of vineagar and BO, my first frantic planning at concert ticket presales, and just now, my mother`s introduction to Flight of the Conchords (my eyes are just a little sweaty today, by the way).
It was also a day for coffin-shopping, reception-baking, grieving and laughing and crying and living and living and living.
We can`t stop, creeter readers. We can`t stop and it doesn`t stop. So we live and we cry and we grieve and we live.
Happy birthday, Mom.
They say it’s your birthday
We’re gonna have a good time
I’m glad it’s your birthday
Happy birthday to you.