And thus her first (but certainly not last) sleepless night of motherhood.
My mother has been telling me a lot of stories lately. It concerns me a little bit, this new propensity of hers to talk about the past. “I suppose I’ve told you about the time your Aunt Lissie and I went on a double date with these boys she met in the drugstore,” she’ll say. Or “I’m sure you’ve heard me talk about those people who lived in the apartment upstairs from us when your dad and I were first married.”
Thing is, many of these stories are new to me. My mother has never been one for dwelling on the old days. But recently, it seems like she wants to make sure I’ve heard all the things about her life that I might have missed.
My birthday story is one that’s been told many times. The blustery March wind, the early labor brought about because her doctor told he he was going out of town and wouldn’t be there on her due date. My dad leaving the hospital to go have the oil changed in his car and completely missing my birth. (“But they told me it would be a long time!” he always protested when we got to that part.)
I’ve always loved hearing stories. And I love telling them.
Which is why I started writing this blog seven years ago on my birthday.
Since then I’ve told you all lots of stories. About my job, my family, my dogs. The books I read, the music I play, the places I go. I’ve told stories about houses bought and sold. About a Grandson who graced our world with hope and light.
Stories are important to me. I’m soaking up all these stories my mother is telling me these days. She was born in March, too, only not in a hospital, but in the four-poster bed at her grandmother’s house in central Kentucky. She has 86 years worth of stories to tell, and I’m happy to listen.
I’m happy you’ve listened to my stories here for the past seven years.
I hope you’ll keep listening. There are bound to be more.