Today my mom turns 90 years old, and I am sitting here trying to wrap my head around everything that number holds.
Think about it. She was born in 1936 in rural Star City, Arkansas, back when the world hadn’t even heard of television yet. Ninety years is not just a long life. It’s practically a front row seat to modern history.
But the number isn’t really what gets me. It’s the story behind it.
Mom lost her own mother when she was just 12 years old. Twelve. At an age when most kids are worried about homework and friends, she was helping raise her little sister, Eloise. That bond never faded. For years afterward, Eloise called her every single Mother’s Day, because in every way that mattered, Mom had earned that title long before she ever had kids of her own.
She was also tougher and braver than her father gave her credit for. She had a good, steady job at the bank in Pine Bluff, the kind of job you were supposed to hold onto. And then, in the early 1960s, she did something that made her dad think she’d lost her mind. She quit, packed up with friends, and moved to Dallas. I have to imagine that took real nerve for a young woman in that era. Turns out she knew exactly what she was doing.
Mom showed up. Every game, every recital, every awkward middle school event nobody else wanted to sit through, she was there, and she was loud about it. If you ever needed proof that someone was in your corner, you just had to glance up into the stands and find her.
Ninety years, one incredibly full life, and I still don’t think I’ve thanked her enough for any of it.
Robin’s Tip: If you have a parent or older loved one who is getting up there in years, ask them about the decisions they’re proudest of. Not the résumé version, the real story. You might be surprised what you learn about the person who raised you.
Happy birthday, Mom. Here’s to 90 and counting.