Day #133 Writing Through COVID-19: Birthday #90

Last night after settling my parents in with their Klondike bars to watch a French documentary about mentally ill criminals (they'll watch pretty much anything at this point), I hugged my mom and told her I loved her at 89 and looked forward to seeing her at 90 in the morning.
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Because I had four hours of Google Classroom training at 8 a.m., I delivered breakfast at 7:15. I served the (same old) English muffins on a red "You Are Special Today" plate, hung the birthday banner, and watched my mom unpack her birthday basket: Lindt chocolates, a(nother) 300 large-piece farm-scene puzzle, and a party-pack of bubbles.
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Three of my siblings checked in with our mom via phone or ZOOM today, and the fourth is coming from across the state for a masked front-porch visit tomorrow.

My mother was pleased to hear from all of us, but she wasn't keeping a tally. Her own birthday-remembering record is abysmal.

She marked my first two children's birthdays with gifts of books, but (who can blame her?) fell off a bit when I had children #3, #4, #5, and #6.  I resent this a lot less today than I did at the time. My kids didn't need the books, but each time she let a birthday slip past without acknowledgment, I felt a prickle of rejection.
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I've mentioned before my past difficult relationship with my mother. I remember several (adult) birthdays when my parents didn't call. It wasn't unusual for us to go months without talking to each other at all. Some years I made a deliberate choice not to call them on holidays. Was I trying to punish them? Or was I simply trying to create enough padding between us to cushion myself against pain of rejection?

I do not have to pull back many layers before I again feel the raw abrasion of my mother's personality rasping against my own. From about 12 years on, I sensed I was was not the person she wanted me to be. That created a painful dissonance: If the authentic me did not meet my mother's approval, I could either transform myself to be closer to her vision of me, or I could reject her version altogether.

I rejected her version.

But it wasn't easy. I felt my mother's disapproval for years. I was over 40 before I realized I could be a good person even without her validation.
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Today, I find myself in a place where I am not only NOT resenting her, but I am actively seeking ways to awash my mother in happy memories and good feelings. Furthermore, I'm doing this not because I'm trying to win her approval, but because during these 4+ months together, I have been if not her "only child," certainly her most present child. 

In the past 133 days, I believe my mother has come to love me, and I have come to love her, with fewer conditions than we have in 60 years.
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After birthday cake and Kondike bars, I hugged my mom tonight.
"I love you even more at 90 than I did at 89," I said.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.