Happy Birthday, Mom.
Aug. 16th, 2005 08:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfieldEveryone loves my mom.
She has always been the ad-hoc diplomat of the family: the one who actually conversed with other people in the neighborhood, the one who would accept or decline invitations, the one in charge of buying Christmas gifts and greeting cards and fruit baskets.
At dinner, she would regale us with stories of her workday at the elementary school, where she apparently swaggered (as much as a perky 4'11" jewish woman can swagger) down the hall as if she were Arthur Fonzarelli, spurring coffeemakers into action with the nudge of an elbow and dispensing droll, sage advice to the many adoring, adopted protégés tugging at her skirt like Somalian refugees.
When my friends would come to pick me up for the usual merry-making, they were always sure to spend a few minutes kibitzing in the foyer with my mom, who would doubtlessly find some amusing way to embarass her teenage son. When girlfriends came over for dinner, my mom -- perhaps desperate for another female perspective in the otherwise cro-magnon Hammersla dining nook -- would joyfully chit-chat for hours, extending mercilessly into my alotted make-out time.
My mom is funny, in a dirty-joke-telling way and in a fish-out-of-Long-Island sort of way. She is beautiful, with the kind of megawatt smile I just know she practiced in childhood, rehearsing for her Oscar acceptance speech. She is smart enough to embarass you, especially if you are related to her.
For these reasons, everyone loves my mom. But you could add up all the love from all those people, and it still wouldn't match how much I love her all the time.
Happy birthday, Mom.
She has always been the ad-hoc diplomat of the family: the one who actually conversed with other people in the neighborhood, the one who would accept or decline invitations, the one in charge of buying Christmas gifts and greeting cards and fruit baskets.
At dinner, she would regale us with stories of her workday at the elementary school, where she apparently swaggered (as much as a perky 4'11" jewish woman can swagger) down the hall as if she were Arthur Fonzarelli, spurring coffeemakers into action with the nudge of an elbow and dispensing droll, sage advice to the many adoring, adopted protégés tugging at her skirt like Somalian refugees.
When my friends would come to pick me up for the usual merry-making, they were always sure to spend a few minutes kibitzing in the foyer with my mom, who would doubtlessly find some amusing way to embarass her teenage son. When girlfriends came over for dinner, my mom -- perhaps desperate for another female perspective in the otherwise cro-magnon Hammersla dining nook -- would joyfully chit-chat for hours, extending mercilessly into my alotted make-out time.
My mom is funny, in a dirty-joke-telling way and in a fish-out-of-Long-Island sort of way. She is beautiful, with the kind of megawatt smile I just know she practiced in childhood, rehearsing for her Oscar acceptance speech. She is smart enough to embarass you, especially if you are related to her.
For these reasons, everyone loves my mom. But you could add up all the love from all those people, and it still wouldn't match how much I love her all the time.
Happy birthday, Mom.
