June 2.

I'm very much my father's daughter. I'm sort of reserved. Don't speak my mind, out loud. Very often. I kind of keep to myself in a crowd, am shy of strangers. I've got Dad's fair hair and affinity for Harry Potter. And Jack Bauer. He's protective of me, and I of him.

But I'm a spitting image of Mom. A Mama's Girl, if you will. "You look just like your mom," relatives often say. Or, "God, she looks just like you," others will say to her when she flashes around my photo. Because she does that, flashes around my photo. And why wouldn't she? We like each other, this family of mine.

We've got thin lips, a knack for sunburns and barely-there eyebrows. She may be 4'11" and three-quarters, but she's dang cute. And so am I, clearly. She's got cuter feet, but I've got a whole head on her.

I inherited her impatience and her father's freckles. And she knows everything. Lying doesn't work. To her, I am transparent. Which doesn't really matter, because I mostly tell her every detail. Of everything. And that's not hard to do when we call each other every day, at least twice. And spat emails back and forth throughout the day.

She's my best friend. A job she shares with the man I'll marry. She laughs when I say "vagina," and uses every opportunity available to make The Fiance squirm with the word "discharge," which I find hilarious.

Mom is synonymous with home. And I get homesick a lot. And I'll never move far from home because who will make me egg sandwiches and spaghetti? And help plan my wedding? And call me at work, and make me laugh inappropriately? And cause me to go over my cell phone minutes because if we don't talk every day after work, for 20 minutes, I'll forget to breathe?

She's my mom. And you can't have her. Today is her birthday, and thank God she was born.

Love you, mama.