my mom is fifty!!! how do you spell old?

I came home on a recent weekday from school, plans to go run at memorial park and then tackle some school work documentation. It was before five o’clock and I knew neither of my roommates were home. I put my key in the door, but found that it was already unlocked…

When I entered the apartment, I found a magic elf had cleaned my closet – literally HOURS of hanging clothes up and finding a place for them somewhere on the racks or shelves. My mom –the magic elf-was in the bathroom with gloves on, a bottle of Fabulousa cleaner in one hand and a cleaning rag in the other. (I do clean the bathroom at least every other week, so it wasn’t infested with mold or anything, but now it was sparkling.)

My mom is one of the most supportive, clean-loving (read: neat freak), servant-hearted people in the world. In my world though, she is the most supportive, selfless, spectacular person I’ve got.

We don’t watch it anymore, but the first three seasons of Grey’s Anatomy my mom and I followed religiously. If I was away at school, we would discuss later that night or the next day. When I was home, we’d send my dad to bed around midnight and hunker down to watch old recorded episodes until wee hours of morning, sometimes talking through half of the episode about unrelated things.

All that to say, there is a quote/scene famous to Grey’s fans that is very reflective of me and my mom. A character called Yang (who is not a touchy, warm and fuzzy person when it comes to any kind of expression of emotion – me) is talking to the character Meredith (a beautiful, somewhat dramatic, best friend who puts up with her crap – my mother.) Yang is having a medical procedure in which you need an emergency contact, and she really didn’t want to be forced to list one. Finally, she gives in and provides Meredith’s name and info for the doctors.
“You are my person,” she says to Meredith.

My mom, as it is no shock to anyone, is my person. (Don’t get me wrong, I love my Dad too, but he thinks its okay to send knives to in a middle school studen’ts lunch box at a public, zero-tolerance school.)

I have joked forever, somewhat sarcastically, somewhat completely serious and grateful, that if my mom had died or run away while my brother and I were growing up, we would be complete crack heads and our family would be a complete mess.

My mom is the glue that holds our family together. She is probably the best mother anyone could ask for - unless you don’t like people to plan your wardrobes or become the confidant of all your guy friends while you’re growing up.

“How did you know joe had a crush on that girl before he asked her out??” “Oh, he told me in the kitchen last weekend when you were all outside.”

“How did you know THAT?” “Oh, Charles called me about that last week to tell me.”

I’m sorry, what? Both of my parents have some extremely rare quality where people my age have always seen them as friends, or older siblings, or just really cool old people. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that they come off as completely non-judgmental, or the fact that they’re really immature, or that they seem like complete freaks so why not bare your soul to them?

I’m rambling. My mom turned fifty last week and I’ve been working on a list of reasons why I love my mom – it is endless and somewhat mundane. (I love that she always knows what I’m thinking. I love that she’s friends with my friends. I love that she sang me to bed every night, literally every night, from birth til age eleven. I love that she embodies the whole love is blind thing.,, Have you met my father?)

My mom’s first fifty years have been joyful – and that is so evident if you’ve ever met her. She is a radiant beam of fashionable sunshine, always friendly, smiling, larger than life. She is unapologetically loud, her laugh fills a room, she cares about everyone -strangers and close friends alike, and she can turn any simple party into a fabulous fiesta.

I’m not sure who’d I be without her in so many ways. I wouldn’t know how to dress myself, have confidence in myself, I would be painfully shy- and rude- I’m sure. I’m serious.

The greatest and worst thing about my best friend/mom is that I can never escape her. “Oh, look at you! You must be Cathy’s daughter!” Duh. Every time I look in the mirror – I see her, in pieces and fractions, in physical attributes and things that lie under the surface.

I think I heard someone say this once, maybe I made it up, I’m not sure, but I know this: God must have really liked what he did the first time to have made a carbon copy in me.
Happy Fifty Years, Mom!

Editors note: this was drafted before recent medical events unfolded. Editor has chosen to keep document as-is for publishing purposes.