Mother Lovett: It's My Party And I'll Cry If I Want To.

Mother Lovett was a tiny, tiny, tiny woman.

 

Let’s just say she had a BIG personality.

 

 

She only stood at about 4 feet, 11 inches tall, after osteoporosis had severly hunched her over. She tried her best to (literally) keep her head up, but sometimes it was just too tiring. 

 

 

The best moments that my cousins and I share involve Mother Lovett. Anyone that knows our family or has crossed paths with us can relate. Unfortunately, but in the MOST lovable way, we often enjoyed a good laugh at  her expense.

 

 

And still do.

 

 

Such as remembering her 87th brithday last April, the last birthday we would have with her.

 

 

She was angry, mad, infuriated – whichever way you want to spin it – she was ticked.

 

 

She had a fairly good reason. After almost 50 years, we had finally moved her out of the house her husband built. (I know you are wondering which husband, it was her first.)

That house was her life.

 

 

But after many falls, bumps, bruises, and scares, along with those other few tiny problems she had – you know, being BLIND and DEAF, and living alone – it was time to move her out.

 
We had to drag her. She refused to give up ANY pride and admit it was time to go. We mentally, emotionally, and physically could not take it anymore. The fear of her rolling down the landscaped bank while picking weeds, falling face-first on the pavement while carrying sticks to a dump-pile, or getting stuck in the bathtub (all of which did indeed happen), was just too much to bear.

 

 

It was very hard on my mom. But it was time for her to move. And we didn’t really give her choice. She had just spent a few months in a rehab facility recovering from her cake-baking heart attack, and my family arranged for her to go to an exceptional assisted living community where she had her own apartment.

 

 

It was a fab apartment. Much better cleaner than what I would be moving into within 6 months, after my nuptials. It was big, too.

 

 

She moved in about a week before her birthday. In my family, we always have birthday parties in our homes – always. This makes for lots of food, fun, unlimited alcohol, and just a wonderful, hilarious time spent together.

 

 

(We also get together most weekends just to hang. Have I mentioned I have the best family ever? )

 

 

 

Her birthday party was set to be on Saturday evening at her daughter’s (my aunt’s) house. All week, she swore up and down she absolutely, definitely was not coming. She was angry with all of us, pouting the majority of the time she spent with us.

 

 

Which was all the time. Someone was there 24/7. I really mean that. She was rarely alone.

 

 

Friday night comes and we are spending some time together at my aunt’s, sans Mother Lovett. We realize she really is not going to come celebrate her birthday. We are sad, but at this point also fed up with the stubborness. She is safe and in a very nice expensive place.

 

 

We got hungry. And we had a perfectly good cake.

 

 

Coconut cake. Delish.

 

 

 

So we had a few slices.

 

 

 

Saturday morning, our wonderful friend Barb spends some time with Mother Lovett. Barb tells her that we never know what tomorrow will bring, and we are all together and healthy TODAY, and she shouldn’t pass up this opportunity to spend time together. At the last minute, Mother Lovett decides to come for the party.

 

 

Her party.

 

 

 

There was no time for a new cake. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Probably the first and only time her height ever came in handy.

 

She never noticed.