When I grow up, I want to be my mother. Not any other mother…just mine. (If my mother is reading this, she’s probably laughing in disbelief.) After all our years of mother/daughter angst, I’m going to have to admit that I hope I’m just like her on my 87th birthday. Wellll…maybe not JUST like her. After all, that would mean that I’d have to learn to like blueberries, oatmeal, bananas, and strawberry pap. Oh yeah, and I would not be spending my birthday watching an opera.
But if I can get to 87 and still do even half of what she does, I’ll be a happy woman. I want to volunteer at an old bookstore, so I can borrow the best books when they come in. I want to decide early one morning to get in my car and trot off to Findlay with my friend, Mary, do some shopping and eat lunch, and share sad and funny stories about our children. I want to work in my garden as the sun rises, read my book club choice as I eat breakfast at a leisurely pace, go back to bed to read some more if I feel like it, and do a couple of laps around my condo complex. I want to make beautiful quilts in colors and patterns that are always perfect (except for that one requisite flaw), I want to play my grand piano when the spirit moves me (but NOT teach three little boys to play piano — sorry, Mother), and I want to try new recipes on my hugely supportive small group. Most of all, I want to visit my kids but only for a few weeks at the most, because I want to sleep in my own bed and eat my own food on my own schedule. Oh, and I want to have three friends who share check-in duties with each other every morning because I want to be sure that I get to enjoy every day of my life!