Mother Likes Her Best

Lynnette came with a cake (chocolate with whipped-cream icing), and I brought the balloons (free at Party World because they said, "Happy New Year.")  It was Mother's ninety-first birthday this past week, and her tiny half-room at the nursing home in Greenfield, Indiana, was crowded with six visitors.

Of the family members there to celebrate her birthday, Mother was especially happy to see her last-born child, Lynnette (also known as "My Baby"). Regarding yours truly (also known as "Are You My Middle Daughter?" and "What's Your Name?"),  I had to remind Mother several times throughout our visit that I was there.

"Where's my baby? Where's my baby?" Mother asked when Lynnette stepped out of the room to take left-over cake to the nurses' station.

"She'll be right back, Mother," I said, "but I'm here, your middle daughter. Carol Louise."

"Where's my baby?  Where's my baby?"

"I'm here, Mama!" Lynnette said as she returned to the room licking icing off of her fingers.  Is it just me or does it sound a little baby-fied for a fifty-three-year-old woman to still call her mother "Mama"?  Okay, it's me.  Never mind then.

Lynnette is Mother's favorite, but I'm fine with it.  No.  Really, I am.  I was Dad's favorite, so it's only fair that Mother likes her best.

One Christmas I gave my stepdad (also known as "Dad") a $1.75 Farmer's Almanac, and Lynnette bought him an expensive Carhartt overcoat.  After he opened Lynnette's present, he said, "Look at what Carol Louise got me!  A Farmer's Almanac!"  Later that day, he handed the coat back to Lynnette and said, "Honey, I'll never wear this.  Why don't you return it and get your money back."  Lynnette tells that "Dad-Liked-You-Best" story all of the time.  Frankly, I'm a little tired of hearing it, and I'm pretty certain that, if I wanted to, I could tell a "Mother-Likes-Lynnette-Best" story.

I think I just did.