My mother greeted me on Mother’s Day with a huge smile. “Thank you for the flowers,” she said.

I’d just arrived to take her to lunch and had my gift in hand. I had not sent her flowers. “What flowers, mom? I didn’t get you flowers this year.”

She pointed to a corsage on her lapel. “These flowers. They’re because of you.”

Mom seemed inordinately pleased by the corsage. She couldn’t stop giggling but finally paused to explain that she got it in church. In honor of Mother’s Day, the priest asked mothers to raise their hands so he could see who had been a mother the longest. By process of elimination, women lowered their hands as Father swept past age brackets of “kids” in their 40’s and 50’s. Anyone with a kid aged 60? 61? 62? Mom’s was the last hand waving with a child aged 65. That’s me.

Mom was quick to point out that she was not necessarily the oldest MOTHER in church. She was just the mother of the oldest CHILD. Again, that’s me. Recognized as the oldest child at the 11:00 mass at St. Cyprian’s last Sunday.

My mother got as much mileage as she could out of that clump of flowers on her chest. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she wore it to play bridge yesterday.

So here you go, Mom. This blog post is for you:

Congratulations on being the mother of the OLDEST KID,

From your loving, ancient daughter