Nothing But Iron: Happy Birthday to Mom January 24, 2005 by Steven R. Lagman, M.D., C.A.S.W. I write to wish my mother a happy birthday. She was born in August, but she gave birth to me on this date in 1961. As I contemplate my happy existence at the end of my 44th year of aging, I wonder this: Why it is that we celebrate ourselves and not our mothers on the anniversaries of our births? I know now that my role back then was rather insignificant. I just sat there, perfectly content to float around in a heated womb, not knowing some guy in a cap and mask and strange green clothes, with Mom’s consent, would urgently cut a hole in her belly, reach inside and yank me out. After that I was lazy and demanding. If I didn’t get what I wanted, I would scream. (Parents know that cry is an understatement.) It would be at least two years before I could do anything useful like make my own bed. Having seen my wife pregnant, having witnessed hundreds of labors and C-sections in my day-night job as an adult doctor, and having helped raise two boys, I can say with certainty that my mother’s many sacrifices are more worthy of annual recognition than the so-called accomplishment of me leaving her immediate confines. Specific hardships included: First trimester vomiting, puffy feet, acid reflux, weight gain, aching back and the anxiety of wondering if I was O.K. in there. Then there was everything that happened after the inciting event: dirty diapers–cloth, not disposable, and no diaper services in those days–and spit up, and food on the floor and in her hair and on her good clothes and on my good clothes, and skinned knees, loose teeth, fevers, tantrums, dirty socks and dirty words, rocks thrown at passing cars, stolen peaches from the nice old neighbor lady, poor sportsmanship, lost books, and the money that I stole from the top of the dresser and hid in shoes. After all that I matriculated into an omnisciently stupid teenager, a condition from which I am still recovering. Those of you who have ever had mothers already know that there is so much more to tell. If you happen to see a lady who kinda looks like me, kinda laughs like me and kinda thinks like me, you can ask her. She will likely dwell on the positives, like the day I smiled before I spit up or messed my diaper. You might find her sipping coffee and doing crosswords with her husband in a Chandler, Arizona, Starbucks. If you notice an occasional far-off, I-remember-that-like-it-was-yesterday look, that’s her, because moms do remember. Give her a big hug for me and wish her happy birthday. _____________ Nothing But Iron is an amateur sports column. This issue is dedicated to the author’s mom, Gayle Creswick, who taught the author how to throw and catch and run and slide and try really hard and to accept defeat. She really did teach that last one, even if the author only learned it incompletely. It is noteworthy that the author’s mom taught him to write. Happy birthday, author’s mom. ©2005 DrTM enterprises. All rights reserved.