gigi-hawaii

This is my daughter, Maria, with Santa at age 5 in 1983.  Look at her wistful facial expression.  She still believed in Santa, but I have no idea what she wished for.

Here are the 4 generations:  My mother, Maria, baby Julia, and me.  Christmas, 2008.

It’s Maria’s 31st birthday.  How time flies!  Wasn’t it just yesterday that I brought her home from the hospital and laid her in the large crib?  Over the years, she progressed as expected, so normally, and satisfied my greatest expectations.  She leapt over every developmental hurdle as outlined in the child development textbooks, never deviating from the chosen path.  While my younger daughter, Lisa, was like buckshot spraying all over the place, Maria was more like the arrow that flew from the bow straight into the apple sitting on top of someone’s head.  Extremely focused, straight and accurate, that is what typified Maria.

And now, she is 31 years old.  I am her 63-year-old mother.  A high school math teacher, wife, mother, and homeowner, she has turned out so well I pat myself on the back and say, “Good job raising her!”  Can any mother ask for anything better? 

We are going to celebrate Maria’s birthday later this month, when my in-laws arrive from Boston for their annual vacation.

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