My Mother's Birthday

My mom dancing with my twin brother at her grand-daughter's wedding in June

Today is my mother's birthday, but I'm not allowed to tell you how old she is. She is keeping her age a secret from the "inmates" at the Assisted Living facility. She likes to keep them guessing. Mostly they guess her to be younger than she is. She loves that. It makes her very happy.

My older brother who will be eligible for Medicare in November told me if I'm getting my nails and hair done as regularly as our mom does when I get to be her age, he'll be impressed. I laugh, I tell him, "I don't even do that now. I've never had my nails done, and I get my hair cut once every six months, if I remember." I must be older than she is already!

I told my mother, if she tells her friends at the facility that her eldest son is going to be 65 soon, she'll have to tell them she had him when she was ten. We laugh and laugh. She likes to be young. It's good for her in every way.

I was born old. It's true. It happens to some people. Here's a random story that illustrates my ancient qualities. When I started kindergarten I wrote a poem everyday and asked the teacher if I could read it to the class. She said "yes" everyday. One of my poems began like this: Now that I am old.

I absolutely love my mother's vitality and passion for life. She reads books on her Kindle. She checks her Facebook account on her laptop. She loves watching the Dodgers and the Clippers play. She loves to dance. She plays the Word Jumble every morning, and most of the time she guesses the words before I do. I think if she were to write a poem today, it might begin like this: I can't believe I'm still this young.

Happy birthday to my amazing and inspiring mother. I know why Dad fell in love with you. I love you.