“My Mom Should Be Celebrated On My Birthday”

00:00:13
Speaker 1: This is Our American Stories, and today we have a feature from one of our regular contributors, Stephen Resiniac. This piece is titled “Happy Birthday to Us,” a tribute to his mother. To read this story and its backstories, please visit StephenResiniac.com. That’s StephenResiniac.com. Here’s Stephen sharing his story.

00:00:42
Speaker 2: It was just what I wanted. It was the perfect present, a one-size-fits-all something that I had long thought of buying from myself but never did. But somehow my mom, with her special maternal instincts and motherly radar, with her uncanny ability to glean information from snippets of overheard conversations, figured it out all by herself, and in the end, she gave me that one gift that I had truly wanted. Nothing else could ever say “Happy Birthday, Sun” like a large gift-wrap box containing a brand new saws awe reciprocating saw. Well, at least, I’m sure that’s what she was thinking that year, and to be honest, I couldn’t have agreed with her more. Two months later, I put my newest favorite tool through its paces while volunteering with my church on a mission trip to Appalachia, where we were helping to make the homes warmer, safer, and drier. My trusty Saw and I quite capably resolved a plethora of challenging, cutting circumstances, answers with ease and efficiency, and one night, as I was reflecting upon its versatility, I suddenly wondered, “What could I have possibly done to deserve such an awesome birthday present?” And then an even greater question came to mind: “What does anyone ever do to deserve any special recognition for nothing more than to have been born?” Both questions, somehow, intrigued and yet bothered me. At the same time, it occurred to me that, aside from being the blue-eyed, blonde, babbling bundle of joy that caused my parents’ world to change from that of being a team of two to becoming a family of three, I have done absolutely nothing to merit being the fortunate recipient of birthday cards and gifts of salutations and recognition. It also occurred to me that if there was any one person who truly deserved acknowledgment for enduring nine long months of daily discomfort, which included morning sickness, indigestion, anemia, swollen ankles; if there was one person who was deserving of birthday kudos for once upon a time being pregnant and then giving birth to a towheaded little kid who would one day grow up to become a happy and healthy, reciprocating, soul-wielding adult, it was my mom, after all. Should all the pertinent details pertaining to my ultimate appearance in this world be made known, this much would be readily obvious. I had nothing to do with my own birth, except, of course, to have been present for the festivities. Suddenly, it seemed wrong for my mom to have done all of the work and for me to receive a lifetime of April birthdays, blowing out the candles on my forever-favorite and beloved strawberry shortcake. So it was that night in Appalachia, and as I packed away my saw, I knew that I was going to have to do something about this birthday recognition business the following year. And on the morning marking the date of my birth, I surprised Mom with a beautiful floral arrangement, my way of acknowledging and sharing with her hour special day. I would do this several more times over the coming years, as we would mutually note the anniversary celebrating the arrival of her firstborn—me. Now, getting these annual arrangements to her wasn’t always as easy as I might have liked, because this senior citizen Nana led an act of life, one spent in perpetual motion. Knowing this, I soon discovered that it would be her schedule and her circumstances that would dictate when and where she might receive the annual acknowledgment recognizing our auspicious occasion. While some of these deliveries were certainly dispatched to her home, not all of them were. Once, I surprised her by placing them inside her car outside the deli where she often stopped for a mid-morning cup of coffee. Another time, I had them delivered to the hospital information desk where she was volunteering; while still another year, she found them inside the room housing the food pantry at my church, where she spent time sorting and bagging donations for distribution. Although the delivery locations, and, as well, the arrangements themselves, would differ from year to year, the one thing that never changed was the verbage on the enclosed card. My handwritten message to her was always the same: “Happy Birthday to Us, Love, Steve.” I think that she grew to expect her annual floral arrangements, and I was more than happy to provide them. They were beautiful reminders of our birthday bond. The sun was moments from rising, and still the colors of spring were already clear to see: the bright yellow for Scythia’s running the length of my neighbor’s backyard, the linen-white buds on the dogwoods, the multi-green colors of the emerging leaves high atop the oaks and the maples. I stood outside on that cool April morning, savoring my coffee and basking in the magnificence of this just awakening day. It was my birthday, and I was another year older. And Mom, well, she’s no longer with us. But as sure as I knew that a strawberry shortcake was going to be in my immediate future, I couldn’t help thinking about her. After all, it was our day; it will always be our day. And so I softly whispered, “Happy Birthday to Us, Mom.” And you know what? I’m pretty sure that she heard me.

00:07:49
Speaker 1: And you’ve been listening to Stephen Resiniac. A beautiful story about his mom. Special thanks as always to Faith for the great work she always does on our pieces, and a special thanks to Stephen for not only writing this, but for performing this beautiful piece. And my goodness, it’s so true. “What could I have done to deserve such an awesome birthday present?” he asked himself when he got a reciprocating saw as a young man. And that the mom understood that was the dream by gleaning through conversations and snippets of conversations what he really wanted. And by the way, it’s such a great point: the boy gets the credit for what’s coming out of the mom. I mean, the mom did all the work. And what a beautiful tradition to establish with your mother. “Happy Birthday to Us.” I wished I’d have thought of that! I lost my mom, but my goodness, I should have done that. I didn’t ever think about that. Then again, my mom wanted it to be all about me in the end. She wanted to know that I was unconditionally loved and did all the things any mom would do. I was lucky to have a mom who did all those things. And my goodness, that night in Appalachia, when he had that understanding: “Oh my goodness, I had nothing to do with my own birth! Mom did all the work.” I get the birthday gifts. We’d love to have your mothers’ stories. Send them to OurAmericanStories.com. That’s OurAmericanStories.com. We’ll be playing them all year long, not just Mother’s Day, folks. We love mothers’ stories and fathers’ stories all year long. Stephen Resiniac’s story, his mother’s story here on Our American Stories.