In celebration of Mother’s Day, may I present the toast I gave to my mom, Mary Lynch, on the occasion of her 80th birthday:

I have a friend who calls my mom “Mother Mary”, and then breaks into a rather dramatic version of the old Beatles song, Let It Be.

When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be

My friend is a devout Catholic, and I have always found it very generous that she would substitute my mother for the Virgin Mary. But I will let that be…

So, this is for you, Mom, our Mother Mary.

I have been thinking about the whole concept of turning 80. Some may claim it’s the new 70, or even with the help of a few doctors, it’s the new 60. But when I turn 80, I am going to own it. I mean, really, you earned it - every darn trip around the sun. So why dumb it down?

And doesn’t turning 80 come with a few perks? Or at the very least a few excuses? Eat two desserts, stay in bed all day, buy that piece of jewelry you have been coveting, park wherever suits. And certainly, ignore what irritates you - what? I can’t hear you.  So, my wish for you, Mom, is that you bask in it all - and while you may feel every day 80, you also marvel at being here.

We have witnessed our mother though so many stages. She was the young - very young – mother, married with three girls. And then she was the uber hip, blue jean wearing, bean sprout growing, meditating, college attending, tap dancing young mother, single and dating (a lot)

She was a serious volunteer and, as a result of her work, a recipient of the Connecticut Swimming Outstanding Service Award.

She was a realtor and entrepreneur who flipped houses for a profit (we moved a lot - a LOT!).

She was the amazing caregiver to her aging mom, and a grandmother who has found time to take each grandchild on a special trip, attend graduations, send birthday and Christmas greetings, and even house the more wayward ones.

She is a golfer, a reader, her dog Ollie’s person, a master bridge player, and now a lover of croquet.

And through these many stages, there are a few stories in particular that stand out to me to provide a little extra color.

The first one is a little fuzzy; I was in my junior year at a boarding school in New Hampshire, and after a few months of school, I returned home on what was known at the time as “The Greenwich Bus”. Students were making their way off while eager parents stood close by. When it came time for my grand exit, I did so with an unexpected pet in hand - a cat or dog, I can’t remember. Other parents watched me with a look that seemed to say, “Thank God that is not my child.” My mother, with a similar look, held her tongue - wanting desperately to scream I am sure, “Get back on that bus and go back to wherever you came from!” But she didn’t say any of that, and somehow, we found our car and brought the uninvited, unappreciated guest home with us.

But this wasn’t the only animal mom took in. She, along with my younger sister, found a dog on the side of the Merritt Parkway that had possibly been thrown from a car; we named her Honey. Honey settled in quickly and gave birth to five puppies shortly thereafter.

Beyond animals, there were people, friends of ours who came to visit and never left. I remember my mom, after one graduation party, whispering to me while pointing to a young man who was sitting on our couch, dressed in his smoking jacket, “Do you think he will ever leave?”

There was just something about our home - our mom - that attracted stowaways and wayward souls.

Another story occurred a few years later; I was getting married. We were shopping for a wedding dress and a going away outfit with a few of my close friends when my mom whispered to me, “Couldn’t you have at least worn proper underwear?” (I was wearing the latest fad - a thong.)

The wedding was wonderful, and it was time for my new husband and me to leave. We went upstairs to change, and then bounded into the reception… dressed in what? My mother said out loud to no one in particular, “That is not the outfit I bought my daughter…my favorite daughter,” (ok, she didn’t really say the “favorite daughter” part, especially in that moment).

Scott and I had also shopped, and we had bought outfits made of head-to-toe leather (mine in bright blue) - tight leather pants and a matching leather motorcycle jacket, and we left on a motorcycle. It made sense. I imagine my mother was once again holding her tongue, wanting to scream, “Go back to wherever you came from!”

And there is one more story that touches my heart really. I was years into my marriage at this point, and the parent of three little boys under the age of three as well as a new baby, Sargeant. At just eight weeks old, Sargeant began to have seizures. We didn’t know what was wrong with him, but he was living at Yale New Haven Hospital, and we were desperately trying to care for him while caring for the three others.

It was Christmastime, and balancing normal traditions and a sick baby can be tricky. My mom stepped in and offered to stay the night with Sargeant on Christmas Eve. In fact, she did more than offer; she basically told us (she can be quite forceful) that she was spending Christmas Eve with Sargeant, because she knew if she offered, we would have turned her down.

Spending Christmas Eve in a pediatric ward, on a chair that pulled out to an extremely uncomfortable makeshift bed, went far and above the role of even the best grandmother. And the fact that she gave us a night of normalcy with our other three was the greatest gift of all. And while stories of returning home from boarding school with an animal in my arms might be fuzzy, this is a story that remains clear as day.

A couple of years ago, I started to write a column for a local paper. And then I started a blog, which is really just a horrible word for a website where a writer collects his or her writings and occasionally sends them out through email to those very nice souls who have subscribed. I don’t have a huge number of subscribers, but among them is my mom.

On the site, readers can leave a comment after reading my “featured” pieces. I work alongside a very nice and talented Texan; I write, and she does all of the tech work. We are a good team. And the mornings when we push send, we wait and see how my writing will be received by that outside universe.

But we have come to joke that it’s not really a piece until my mom has added her own two cents (though I am actually very grateful to know that she reads them; that anyone reads them, really). I thought I would share a few of her comments, her words of wisdom…

So nice to see your memories. Surprisingly I was just thinking about fruitloops yesterday and wondering who had removed all the good stuff. Thanks for enlightening me. xoxo mom

Side Note: at 80, randomly thinking about “fruitloops” is totally acceptable.

One of my favorites. Happy, happy anniversary. Remember that fateful day very well. xoxo mom

Side Note: Fateful is defined as “having far-reaching and often disastrous consequences or implications”. I am not sure what my mother is saying here.

Ice, you were smart enough to go to Yale. They were not smart enough to accept you xoxo mom

Side Note: If your mom says it, it must be true.

You were never uncool whatever you may think. You were always and are still a wonderful human being. Am honored to be your Mother. xoxo mom

Side Note: except when you wear a thong to a wedding dress fitting.

I will end my remarks here. Because at 80, taking a nap during a long-winded toast or sermon is definitely a perk.

Wake up - it’s over!

Mother Mary, you inspire us, always. Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Happy Birthday (and now Happy Mother’s Day), Mom. I love you.

Your Favorite Daughter,

Icy

PS: And a big huge Happy Mother’s Day to all of the mothers out there! You are all inspiring, even if you are not “Mother Mary”.