Me and the youngest nephew. (Sarah Kirkconnell photo)
My mom would have turned 70 today.
Our birthdays are separated by just two days, but this summer will mark eight years since she stopped hitting a new milestone.
As I spend this week at my sister’s, helping her and her family move across town into a new house, I have a chance to see my nephews, who are 16, four and two.
My mom deeply loved her first grandchild and was very proud of the woman my sister had become. She was there for the first eight years of his life, including almost six where she saw him on a regular daily basis, and it meant a lot to her.
Before her illnesses took her down, after a slow, painful chipping away of my mom’s body and spirit, my sister had gotten married and become a successful writer, building an empire that started with hiking and trail food and continues to expand out to this day.
I wrote a lot of newspaper stories, fought with my share of editors, bounced from job to job (with a nice long stay in the comfy confines of the video store world) and never quite put it all together.
So, win some, shake your head at some.
My mom never got a chance to meet my two youngest nephews, and that is too bad.
They would have loved her as much as she would have adored them. She was great at being a grandmother and seeing them blossom would have helped with her own battles.
But, it wasn’t meant to be.
Still, I see a bit of her in each of my nephews.
When the two-year-old chortles to himself, making “bah-hah-hah!!” ring through the room — which is his favorite thing to do right now — I can hear her.
When the four-year-old gazes up at me and goes into a long-winded tale of why he should be allowed to eat whip cream, and only whip cream, for lunch, while making his eyes go all limpid and super-sensitive, I remember my mom’s first rule.
Eat whatever you want for breakfast, and screw the rules, as long as it makes you happy.
And when the 16-year-old gets super-dramatic and pouty, bringin’ down upon his mom what she once brought down upon our mom, I have thoughts.
But, hopefully, I’m smart enough not to say them out loud close enough to my sister to where she can smack me.
Most times, at least…
And when all three boys hunker down over books, I see my mom the most.
She was a librarian and loved books. We got our library cards at an extremely young age and, as we grew up, if you went to find her, 99.8% of the time she was somewhere reading.
Seeing my sister teach her own boys what she was taught by our mom is nice. It keeps her spirit alive.
Because that will never fade, no matter how many years pass.
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