Mother

I was conceived Catholic, probably during the third week of March. 1968. Which gave my zygote a front row seat for my parents nuptials that 25th of May.

I would be followed into this world on a fairly regular schedule over the next 16 years by seven other little miracles. You see my Dad was Catholic and a hypochondriac who was convinced that regular sex was necessary for prostate health. He was also terrified of Hell, where a succession of pontiffs had decreed he would be headed if he used prophylactic interventions. The onslaught only ceased when Mom got her tubes tied after the arrival of Andrew. The baby machine was closed

After Dad’s untimely encounter with mortality, a blessedly quick affair involving Newton’s laws of motion and an out of control minivan intersecting his morning walk, we discovered the existence of my older sister given up for adoption before my folks hooked up.

Nine little humans were gestated in Moms uterus, an organ that eventually had to be removed entirely simply from the wear and tear.

It takes a certain orneriness to have that big a family, something Mom inherited from Grandma Brinkman, a battle scarred veteran of 12 births who nevertheless made it almost to the century mark. Brinkman ladies are hard to take out. Aunt Pat is celebrating her 9th decade this summer.

It takes its toll though. Mom is now heading into her mid seventies and she’s had two medulla strokes, type 2 diabetes, and a myocardial infarction that probably would have killed a bull moose. And despite all that she’s still kicking, if a little slower than before.

I don’t recommend a family of ten to anyone, it was a farm family crammed into a suburban house. Too many idle hands. Mom and Dad didn’t always handle it well and we certainly weren’t as helpful as we should have been.

But despite the twists and turns and sudden tragedies she is still with us. Not everyone I know has that privilege, I don’t take that lightly. Let’s keep it that way for awhile.