A few times a week on my morning drive into work I wait to hit the bridge, clear of stop lights and panhandlers and other distractions that have me playing Go-Go Speed Racer in a driving weave of strategerie (I know that’s not a real word by the way).  I press and hold the number 3 on my phone, the quick blip of simulated speed dial numbers ring through and within a few seconds I am greeted with a “Good Morning!”.  On the other end, my mama, and though she seems a bit antiquated without caller id, she always knows just who it is.  It’s our morning phone date.  At least a couple of days a week it plays out this way.  Tomorrow morning, however, I anticipate that she will be the one calling me. I will answer “Good Morning!” because my cellie will give me verification it’s her.  She will clear her throat, as she does before approaching anything of controversy, and quip something along the lines of “I can’t believe you told everyone how old I am!”  She will feign astonishment and I will listen for the smile in her voice from, perhaps, a twinge of flattery.  At least, this is how I see it all playing out in my head.

She shouldn’t be pissed – she should be proud, dancing swan leaps across the hard wood floors of the living room in celebration of yet another year well done.  She is sixty-three, and although sometimes I think she’s completely delusional, she defies her age with a spirit and glow emanating from the youth she’s captured inside.  In my book, she’s one hot mama, and I’m glad to know my future holds a shot at those genes.  I’ll never forget looking at a picture in grade school that someone took of our hands together.  They were exactly the same, the hands of years of giving love and time contrasted only by the naivety and inexperience of mine.  I love the revelation that captured moment gave me that I’ve savored for years.  One that in our day to day of life, I was never able to recognize on my own.

We took our matching hands and callused toes for a little celebration, champagne and pampering.  A fiery red pick-me-up and some much overdue girl time.  It was tart-tastic.  (I looked and looked for that photo of our hands.  Sadly, all I could find were endless pages of horribly embarrassing early 90’s clothing and hair.  It was so wrong.)

I think she likes to use these yearly milestones to prove her theory of age-defying resilience, or maybe test it (I’m not really sure which it is). There’s been horseback riding, a surprise “Road Rally” party celebrating 60 years of her horrible driving (3 weeks prior to it she totaled her car – I’m just sayin’) along with bike trips and picnics soakin’ in the spring and each other.  This year was no exception to her trademark style of celebration as yet another new adventure came about – sky diving.  Well, sort of.  Sky diving via wind tunnel, tourist style.

We piled into the air-sealed chamber and she waited to sit, apparently calculating the positioning order in her favor.  Then, with overly intent eyes and level words she turns to me and says “I need you guys to go first, then, give me the OK to let me know if you think I can do this.”  Pfffthh.  Whatever woman, we drove all the way over to Orlando for this, you’re doin’ it!  Just to be sure, she got a little practice in before the main event.

Scott, Deborah, Myself, Mom & Brad.  One by one, we went our turn, none of us revealing the feeling of saltwater air plunging through every orifice on our face until the others had experienced it firsthand.  And once the arms and legs were appropriately adjusted according to the signals the instructor was throwin’ our way – it was a wild ride!

For some, more wild than others.

We gathered back at the Stigg house that night for a collaborative dinner turned epicurean feast (aka – Deborah channeling culinary Steve-style goodness straight to our table).  And, because if I don’t mention it I’m bettin’ I’ll hear about it, a pretty awesome Tiramisu from Brad.

And thankfully, we will be reliving our adventure through video until our flappy-cheeked faces are no longer funny, if that day ever comes.

It was a celebration fit for one that deserves to be celebrated.  Another memory of another year to add to the tally of love that she has nested in us all.

Happy sixty-three to my mom, but more importantly, my friend.

Suggested Listening: 5 Years Time / Noah and the Whale