I have exactly two memories of my biological mother: one is of listening to her bicker with my dad about needing to stop at the drugstore for pantyhose, presumably having run the ones she was wearing. The other, attempting to sit on her lap and not being able to, since she was a tiny woman and pregnant with my twin brothers.
There should be no surprise that in spite of our 3-year age gap, these two are part of my earliest memory. They have always left quite an impression!
My brothers are two of the most unique people one could ever meet – and while they look so much alike that no one ever believes they are fraternal, they are two very distinct people. That’s not to say they aren’t a lot alike, however.
When we were younger, they wowed the grownups with their abilities. Reading before three. Math problems, too. They knew all the states and their capitals. They read maps better than my mom. To this day, they both can tell you not just who won a Super Bowl of any given year, but they can tell you the scores of any game, the breakdown of points by quarter, which player scored which points, and as an added bonus, what happened in our own lives on that day. I am not even kidding. I’ve witnessed arguments between them concerning which shirt they were wearing during a game that took place in 1985.
I shall spare them the extended memory list, as it is their birthday and I don’t wish to embarrass them, but while they may exist as children in my memory, they are now grown men: each with beautiful wives whom I not only approve of but love like sisters. Both now fathers. Both not only smarter than anyone I’ve ever known, but also wise.
Happy birthday, Adam and Joe. I love you.
owning up to my mistakes. Check it out!
In thirty-five days, I’ll be moving into a new decade. I have obviously known about this event for quite some time, but I hadn’t really given it much thought lately. It’s been a bit busy, what with four kids and keeping them alive and relatively cared for. Additionally, the fall is a busy time full of family birthdays, our anniversary, and of course Halloween. And what with Indian Summer being in full swing, I mean, I am sweating for crying out loud, it hardly seems that close to my Christmas-seasoned birthday.
But there you have it. Staring down the barrel of forty, I am. FORTY. it’s kind of an ugly word, don’t you think? If only the word gods had left the “u” in there, at least. I could be all Britishy about it, but noooo, it’s just a crass little word now. Not dignified like “colour” or even “honour.”
Half of the time, I completely forget I turned 39 already. For some reason, (baby?) I still keep telling people I’m 38. I liked 38. 38 was a good age. I liked it so much I inadvertently stayed there for two years.
All the same, turning forty is overwhelmingly better than the alternative. As I’m already a year older than my mother was at her passing, of this I am keenly aware. And there are a great number of fabulous forty year-olds these days. I’m still younger than a number of actresses still portraying sex objects as opposed to wise grandmotherly types.
In anticipation of this birthday, I’ve got a few items on my list to accomplish. Finishing up my book, for starters. But on a smaller scale, I still don’t have a lipstick shade. I’m nearly forty, for heaven’s sake, I should be able to pick a lip colour. (see how much more dignified that “ou” is?) This weekend, I intend to find one. And maybe some makeup to wear every day. After all, I am no longer 38. No reason I should be scaring small children with this bare face.