Back when I was gainfully employed by a retail bank in Ireland, we were paid on the 23rd of each month.

Except in December.

In December, we were paid early for Christmas – around the 16th. It seemed as if January 23rd took an age to arrive.

But then February 23rd trotted along soon after.

I have a vivid memory as a child of asking my mam when her birthday was. I remember her hesitating before saying 23rd February. I thought no more of it until many years later when at a hospital, she was asked for her date of birth so they could pull up her file. She said, as I’d have expected, 23rd February.

When they couldn’t find anything with her name and that date, she offered another date in March.

The nurse taking her details wasn’t the only one looking confused.

When I asked her later, she said that as a baby, she’d been very sick and had died. But her uncle shook the life back into her.

Her words.

It was that rebirthday that was registered.

Things were done differently then. I’m only going on what I was told.

The March date never figured for me.

Except the month she died. That is the only time I can remember even acknowledging it.

It was always February.

Yes,  the March date is on her passport. And her birth cert. And her death cert. But it’s just a date.

Mam’s birthday is today.

It’s her first heavenly birthday.

“Happy heavenly birthday” is simply wishing a happy birthday to a loved one that has passed. It’s a recognition of the continued presence and influence of our loved ones who have passed away. A heavenly happy birthday is a way to honor their memory, not just by reminiscing about the past, but by celebrating the essence of who they were and the profound impact they had on our lives.

I can hear her laughing at the very idea.

Mam was a pragmatist at heart. Yet, there was a whimsical side to her that might secretly appreciate my having a bowl of tiramisu (a favourite of hers) for breakfast this morning and wishing her a lovely day.

When she was alive, mam knew as much about what I was doing as I told her or as much as she heard from others. She never really grasped what I did for a coin because there wasn’t one box I fit into.

Now that she’s dead though, I feel like she sees everything.

Like me having tiramisu for breakfast.

I wonder what she thinks, now that she knows everything about me.

I was making the bed the other day and doing it quickly when I heard her giving out, telling me I was being sloppy. So I took my time and made it with the hospital corners, as she’d taught me.

Physically removed she may be, but my mam is still very much here, occasionally making a guest appearance through me.

Himself made a fab bathroom sink stand from an old wrought iron sewing machine. On my hands and knees yesterday washing it down, I dislodged the drain pipe. Dirty water spilled all over the floor and I spiralled.

I stopped mid-rant because I sounded just like her.

We have very different ways of walking. Or we had. Coming in from the barn one day, I caught myself walking just like her.

Perhaps it’s true. We do turn into our mothers.

Jessica Machado has an interesting piece about her mother/daughter relationship on Vice which Rosjke Hasseldine refers to in her Huffington Post piece, Am I destined to become my mother. Hasseldine writes:

Yes, we are destined to become our mothers, and no, it is not inevitable. It makes sense that after spending our formative years surrounded by the way our mother does things, some of her unique behaviors and idiosyncrasies will rub off on us. We will pick up her mannerisms, her phrases and her particular ways of reacting to things. And more importantly, we will inherit some of what our mother feels about herself and what she thinks is possible for her as a woman. The reality about these inherited beliefs is that some will be full of strength and promise, and others will be negative and self-limiting. And the good news is that repeating negative, self-limiting beliefs is not inevitable if we understand who our mother is and why she believes what she believes.

When I am compelled to give, to help, it is my mother in me. When I do what needs to be done when it needs to be done, that’s also my mam.

On days when things seem to fall to pieces, when nothing goes right, when everything I touch falls apart, I hear her, too.

Get a grip, she says. Nobody died.

Happy birthday, mam. Thanks for sticking with me.