The phone call

Every year on my birthday, I could count on the phone call. It always came in the morning, because that's when she wasn't drunk yet (or at least still mostly coherent). It always made me late for work. It always annoyed me.

{bbrrrrnnngggg}
Hello?
Hello, Jayne, this is your mother.
Yes, I know it's you. What's going on?
Well, I just thought I'd call and wish you a Happy Birthday.
Ummm, well, thanks, but I've rea . . .
And the reason I know it's your birthday is because I was there.
. . . lly got to get going, I'm late for work.
And the reason I was there is because I was having you.

Whereupon I had to sit through the torturous story of my birth, complete with her eating chocolates in the delivery room, sending my father off to work because he was hovering, and me for once actually being on time, just after my father arrived back at the hospital. Nobody, but nobody could tell a story like my mom, full of pathos and humor all at the same time.

I don't get that call anymore, and it's one of the things I miss most.

But at least now I'll know how to completely annoy my kids on their birthdays. Thanks, Mommy.