Today is my mother’s birthday.

And she’s crazy. Crazy in the sense that she has no concept of reality. I think she started loosing it in her early teens and it’s become a rapid decline since then. I’m not sure how old she is today because she lies about her age. It’s tied up in some story about Pearl Harbor. I guess that makes her either 65 or 68, depending on which story you go with.

My mom is like one of those choose your own ending books. Depending on which page you flip the outcome is surprisingly different, but either way it’s a dramatic ending filled with fascinating twists.

I just called her to wish her a happy birthday and towards the end of the conversation she is accusing me of not emailing her regarding the closing date on my house. I’ve emailed her regarding this at least a dozen times. Then she goes into some rant about her knee and possibly needing knee surgery. It’s a perfect example of her mind’s squinty eye.

Me: “Oh my gosh, Mom. Are you going to get surgery?”
Mom: “I’m not sure. You know this happened during one of my cheerleading stunts”

** Blank stare down at the paper clip I am messing with in my hands **

Me: “When were you a cheerleader?”
Mom: “You know, back when I lived in San Francisco”
Me: “Oh. Well…I can’t believe it’s still hurting you”
Mom: “Well, I injured it again when you were little. Don’t you remember? I was sitting cross-legged like I always do, pinning dress patterns for you guys. I got up to take you to school and we got into the grey station wagon I use to have.”

**More blank stares to the paperclip. I’ve never heard cheerleading stories from her before and when have I ever seen her sit cross-legged? And why the hell is she making us dresses before school? Wouldn’t that be at 7 am in the morning or something? Who pins patterns at 7 in the morning when you have 4 kids to get to school? **

Me: “I don’t remember the grey station wagon. I must have been too little”
Mom: “Well, we got to your school and I couldn’t get out of the car. My knee had locked up and I couldn’t move it. Well, we just laughed and laughed and then I drove myself down to the ER. They had to lift me out of the car and drain my knee.”

**Eyebrows contorted and my face is tilted. When did my Mom become some type of stunt driver? How would she be able to drive with her leg straight all the way through Houston traffic to the hospital? **

Me: “Wow. Guess I forgot that”

My voice was flat and monotone. These are the stories she comes up with. These are the outrageous lines my Mom will hand you if you’re within earshot of the lady. She talks about going to Japan and Africa all the time. She’s never been out of the country. She talks about how my birth parents were in the Rodeo, but I was born in April and the rodeo is in February. She talks about hanging out with Dave Brubeck and how she once gave CPR to my brother’s hamster and it saved it’s life.

These are the tales of the woman who raised me. Reality was never permanent around her. It moved and shifted when you least expected it. It was hard and brutal when you wanted it to be soft and cuddly.

I needed her address the other day and so I Googled her. Page after page came up about all the amazing work she’s done. In this sense of reality she is amazing. Somehow she’s able to conquer the world, just not her private life.

So for what it’s worth, or whatever it means to her, I wish her a happy birthday.