My mother.

When I was growing up, my parents decided my mom would stay at home with me and my brothers and my dad would go to work. I'm fortunate, because I remember my mom always being there. I knew kids who had house keys by the age of seven. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but there was something about running up the front porch steps from the bus stop to mom being there with a snack, asking us how our day was and how much homework we had that just made life more comfortable.

If you know my mother at all, you know she's always dancing, singing and smiling. Always. Sometimes I roll my eyes and laugh as she pulls me across the kitchen floor trying desperately to get me to dance with her. But there was a time when I was six, she'd put on Madonna's, "The Immaculate Collection" and I'd stand on the coffee table in our family room and dance and sing my heart out.

My mom always wanted to surprise me when I was little. When I was turning ten, she sent me to the roller rink with a friend and her mom. When we came back, there was a surprise party waiting for me in our house with all my friends and family.

When I was twelve, I decided to go to camp for the first time. It was really my first time away from home without being surrounded by someone familiar (a grandparent, a friend, etc.) and I was terrified. My mom wrote me via fax once a day for the entire week I was there, and when I came home, she had surprised me and painted my room purple--my favorite color.

I remember when my grandmother passed away, my mom just hugged me and cried. I didn't know my grandmother incredibly well; we had always lived about 500 miles away from her. But that moment made me realize the bond that I had with my mother. I stood on my bed early that February morning so I was just a little bit taller than my mom. I don't think I fully understood why my mom was so sad, but I remember thinking that if it were her that was gone, I would be devastated. That, alone, made me understand the situation and realize I never wanted to lose my mother.

When I played soccer as a kid (or any sport for that matter), my mom never quite understood exactly what was going on but you could put money on the fact that she'd be at every game. Her and my brothers would sit on the side line and even though she was the smallest lady out there, she was, by far, the loudest. Her screams and cheers could be heard clear across the field.

Baking at the holidays was always a family affair. My mom would blast Christmas music and put on festive earrings and sweaters. She'd dance and sing and rotate from one child to the next and help us with our holiday cookies. Again, we'd roll our eyes (but we were unable to hide the big smiles on our faces) as we'd add the various ingredients to our cookie bowls.

My mom has this way of literally making almost everything okay. A simple hug from her could fix a bruised knee on the playground at age five and today, there are days when the office is hectic and the phone is ringing off the hook when I think to myself it'd be nice to just get a hug from my mom.

I'm thankful for my mom's quirky, goofy dancing and singing; for the way she was always home and how her hugs could heal anything. For she has made me into who I am today.

I recently visited Amoeba in LA and found a copy of "The Immaculate Collection". I recognized that pale blue cover from aisles away. Sometimes I'll pop that in my CD player and sing and dance a little like I used to on that coffee table or with mom in the kitchen. Even from three thousand miles away, I can still see her bopping her head from side to side and snapping her fingers along to "Cherish"; it always seems to make everything okay.

Sorry this is so late, Mom! I blame the salmonella! Miss you every day. Happy (belated) birthday.