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Today was mom’s birthday.
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I slept in, enjoying the sleep, and knowing that by the time I woke up she would be enjoying her day, down at the beach, and would be available for a full call still before stuffing the family’s face with carbs and other forms of love.
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On the phone, first with grandma, I talked about cakes and how I had had a dream about a cake the night before. The ladies in question had an issue with the frosting of the cake, German by design, and I had had a problem with a certain cake of chocolate myself.
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I was trying to spread not enough frosting around a cake that I felt wasn’t enough to begin with.
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The other ladies, down at the beach, were having a similar problem, not having the frosting to frost to begin with.
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A usual conversation with mom ensued: what was happening, what had happened, what was going to happen.
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Mom told me something about the past I had no memory of: she had cried in front of me when I was 2, in response to her own mother’s illness. I then, apparently, spent forever after asking “are you happy, mommy? are you happy?”
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It was the kind of thing that a mother would find wildly obnoxious, as it was.
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I feel comfortable, now, knowing that mommy’s happy.
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And, so, happy birthday, mommy.
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