I Love You, Mom

A short tribute to my favorite all-American Boomer and the most Christian non-Christian lady I know, and why everyone (obviously) needs a mother.

On every birthday and wedding anniversary a handwritten card arrives in the mail exactly on time, on the exact date. A card she picked out, wrote, addressed in perfect cursive, and mailed—with perfect timing.

How does my mother do it? Boomers have a certain magical knack for holding civilization together, and this is but one of their gifts. It will die with them.

I love these cards. I love her. She is, thankfully, alive and in good health, and quite young for a Boomer. She had me, her first, when she was just 23 years old and had been married for two years. My brother and sister followed. My early childhood photographs showcase her other handiwork: my spectacular hand-painted sandbox, my stuffed animals she made by hand, the quilts, the matching red gingham dresses she made for both of us (and even one to match my favorite stuffie).