Quietly and without fanfare or freak out, my sweet little mama turned 60 years old today. In my mind’s eye, she’ll never be older than 35 years old, when I remember spending every afternoon doing crafts, making things (usually involving glitter and glue), writing the alphabet with my tiny fingers in the soapy bubbles on her back in the bathtub, letting her guess the letters. She’s always been a nurturing mama, but not the kind to make us feel too proud of ourselves, either. If we messed up, we were responsible, and even as adults when something isn’t going right she’s the first to ask, “did you do something you shouldn’ve have?”—which I appreciate, as a grown up. I inherited her tender heart and her creative spirit, and I’m thankful for both every day of my life. She’s a special woman, and we celebrated all 60 of her years tonight at my house with spaghetti and meatballs and red velvet cake. I decided it merited taking a day off from work to be at home, cooking and fluffing up the house.
And then they arrived, mama, daddy, Clark, Walker and Amanda, ready to open gifts and eat way too much.
Daddy was too glued to the Auburn/Kentucky game to take a picture, so we made seveal feeble attempts.
Ben made her a beautiful cutting board, and now I’m jealous because I want one in that pattern!
He’s making some for the new Scotsman online store, too. Hooray!
Happiest birthday, Mama. You may never understand how loved you are.