Would You Be Offended If Someone Forgot Your Birthday?

I don't get the whole birthday thing.  Maybe you can explain it to me.  My birthday is coming up in a couple weeks and sometimes I don't even remember unless I look at the calendar that day.

I know how important it is to a lot of people that their families remember them in a special way - usually with gifts, cards and dinner.  Maybe even a party.  Some people enjoy telling everyone it's their birthday and expect special treatment.

I ask you - WHY?  You were born.  You are still alive.  The way I look at it, we should celebrate

Dear Prodigal Son

Dear Son:

Today is your birthday.  I believe every mother remembers the birth day of her child on their special day.  It does not matter how many years go by.  Wasn't it only yesterday I held your tiny body in my arms and welcomed you into this world?

You looked at me.  No, you stared.  In fact, you stared so long I was concerned.  Aren't newborns supposed to sleep more?  But, you just looked at me, for hours.  You were three days old.  Although the adoption seemed to take forever, nine months after we applied, we got the call.

"You have a son.  He is perfect.  You can pick him up in three days."

There were no words to describe the impact those words had on me.  I was now a mother.  Your mother.  No child was ever loved more.

And no mother could possibly grieve more.  Just after your 31st birthday two years ago,  you left us. You walked away.  You tossed our love away.  You broke our hearts.  I thought I would die.  If we knew how to fix it, we would.  Only God knows.   I will never.......ever.....give up hope.  We long for the day of your return.  This mother needs to feel her arms around her son, to hold him again.

Happy Birthday, dear son.  We love you.  We have always loved you.  We will love you forever.

Mommy

In the past two years many women have shared this same scenario with me.  We need each other.  Do you know anyone who has lived this nightmare?

Photo courtesy of mypeyronios.com

The Cops Called and Left A Message

"This is Officer Colt and I would appreciate it if you would contact me as soon as possible."  That was the message left on a Friday afternoon.  What is the first thing that runs through your mind when a cop calls and leaves a message? 

"What's wrong?"  "Who's in trouble?"  "Who is in the hospital?"  Of course I called right back but I would have to speak directly with Officer Colt and he was out of the office until Tuesday.  Every negative scenario I could think of terrified me.  At dinner I asked my husband, "Do you have a bunch of parking tickets you threw away?"  "NO!" That's good...... I guess.  I still didn't know what was wrong and it drove me nuts all weekend.

6 Tips on How To Stop Cleaning Your House

Every Saturday, I mean EVERY Saturday.....housework came first.  It mattered not what I had planned for the day, or how much my friends wanted me to join them for a trip to the mall, Mother always said "After the housework is done, you can go out." End of conversation.

Mondays were reserved for doing the laundry.  Tuesdays were for ironing.  Wednesdays for baking. Thursdays for gardening. I don't remember what Fridays were for but..... SATURDAYS were for cleaning house.  This was usually a full day of work.

Dusting.  Sweeping.  Shaking (or beating) the big rugs outside.  Mopping the floors.  Spot washing the walls, window sills and whatever.  Scrubbing the bathroom.  Polishing the furniture. Polishing the silverware.  It's amazing I survived!

How Can You Leave Me? I Love You Too Much

"TAKE THAT BACK!"  I screamed to myself but it was too late to recant.  What was said, was said.  What's done is done.  I knew how much the words had hurt.  Why did I say them?  Why hadn't I bit my tongue?

It was autumn, my favorite time of year.  I don't appreciate the heat of summer so taking long hikes were reserved for summer's end.  My closest friend and I would often make a day of it.  I would pack a lunch and we would head up the mountain.  We were both a bit too old to walk that far, but would drive as far as we safely could and then hike a bit farther.

Waiting For Answers That Never Seem To Come

When I was younger I wrote a lot of poetry.  It was a way of expressing myself without anyone knowing I was talking about 'me.'    There are poems I often ponder from decades ago, but they still carry a punch.  I would like to share one here that I trust will encourage you.  Read it more than once - let it sink in:

ONLY WAIT

Oft there comes a gentle whisper o'er me stealing,

When my trials or my burdens seem too great,

Like the sweet voiced bells of evening softly pealing,

It is saying to my spirit "Only Wait."

Are Kids Angrier Than Before?

WHAT IS GOING ON?   Last week I posted what happened while I was traveling on a ferry.  I shared how, in the course of an hour, I witnessed three separate incidents of young children behaving badly, disrespectful and down right rude.  I was appalled.  That story is here. After reading that post, a friend of mine emailed me her story.  She witnessed these two events in less than a 24-hour period.  While reading them I kept saying out loud, "No!" and "I can't believe it!"  But it happened.  Just like she saw it and it makes me either want to throw up or cry; in other words, it makes me sick.

The Never Ending Wait in Line

Isn't it odd.... the things we remember?  Some of you will remember my day-long stressful experience at the post office that turned out to be hilarious.  Over 50 years ago, I read a poem and every single time I am in a post office -- I still think of it. It was written by one of my favorite poets, James Kavanaugh.  He wrote about life and love.  Most of his poems asked questions - which trigger thought.  I have enjoyed every single poem he has written and they obviously have made an impact. Some of his works dig deep but this is a lighter one.  Suffice it to say, next time you are in a post office, I bet you remember this poem:

The Post Office

I've never dealt with Russian commissars

Nor spent a single day in prison camps,

But I often meet the ghost of buried czars

When I try to buy a roll of eight-cent stamps.