Mom is sixty today.
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And in case anyone's wondering what sixty looks like on her, I can tell you — it looks like three hours in the garden every morning before most of us have finished our coffee. It looks like taking up bouldering, which is apparently what you do when regular climbing isn't challenging enough. And it sounds like the loudest laugh in this room, which, if you know this family, is really saying something.
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I'm her oldest. I'll be fifty next year, which means I've had nearly five decades to study how she moves through the world. And here's what I've learned: she doesn't rush. When I was seven, I fell out of the apple tree in our backyard and broke my arm. I was hysterical, she was calm. She sat on the kitchen floor with me for three hours waiting for the swelling to go down before we went to the hospital. No panic, no fuss. Just sat there. That's who she's always been — the person who stays on the floor as long as you need her to.
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She's also the person who, every Christmas, makes seven different kinds of cookies and pretends she didn't notice she made too many. Then quietly eats most of the rejects herself. I see you, Mom.
But the thing about her that's shaped my life more than anything else is something she's said to me at least two hundred times: "Just put on your shoes and walk to the door — by the time you get there, you'll know if you wanted to go." It's the only advice I completely trust. It works for parties, job interviews, difficult conversations, and every other moment when you're frozen and don't know what to do. It's gotten me through more than she knows.
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She's the person I called when I got the job. The person I called when I lost the job. The person I called when the dog died. She's the person who stays on the floor, who bakes too many cookies, who laughs the loudest, who climbs the hardest routes.
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So here's to sixty. Here's to Mom. Here's to the woman who taught me that courage is just putting on your shoes and walking to the door.