Last week I reached the ripe, predictable age of 26. I’m not sure why it feels predictable. On your 16, 18, 21, and 25th birthdays, you feel like you’ve reached some sort of milestone. Legal to drive, legally an adult, legal to raise a toast in a bar, legal to rent a car (woo, big fun). But 26? Well, welcome to the rest of your adulthood. Here’s a copy of the tax code. Good luck. Outside of the decade birthdays — 30, 40, 50, etc. — you don’t have many more fixed age milestones. I suppose, in a way, that actually makes future birthdays less predictable. Because you don’t know what the threshold of each year will bring. Maybe 26 will be the year I finally learn to surf. Maybe it will be the year I ride cross-country in a caboose. Maybe it’s the year I will get married. Wait a second…. (I kid, I kid.)

So, forget the original thesis of this post. I have hence decided that though I have few expected birthday milestones left to hit, life will henceforth be less predictable and more open to any possibility. (Consequently, this is also how I wrote most of my papers in college. I’d start on one path with one thesis in mind, and end up convincing myself of the opposite in the course of writing the darn thing. Efficient.)

The point is, 26 years ago my mother did this Herculean thing. She had a child, the second of what would one day be four. That day became my birthday. And though each year we get celebrated on our birthdays, I think it’s important to celebrate the person who really did all the heavy lifting that day: our mothers. So, Mom (though this is five days behind schedule, I blame tax season) thank you for being the rock and always gentle force behind us all. We love you.

Happy 2nd Child Day to you!

Our mother, she taught us everything we know.