Thoughts, 6/23/23

Thoughts from my birthday week, two years ago

Earlier this week, my mother -(ever-true to her generous nature)- sent me two packages and a card for my upcoming birthday. She informed me the moment she sent them, asked that I track their progress across the country throughout the week, and checked in with me every day to see if I had received her gifts. My mother is never late for anything. Once upon a time, I found this mildly annoying, perhaps because we are taught in American culture that being late is fashionable. Now, however, I admire her punctuality and thoughtfulness. I could be a complete social reject and my mother would still come through for me. I know this because she always has, no matter how far away I have roamed.

As per usual, every item within this year’s birthday packages was a perfect choice. My mother has a knack for knowing precisely what a person will like. In fact, her understanding of other people’s tastes often exceeds their own. Many a birthday or Christmas have I opened a gift from my mother and thought, “Wow… I had no idea I could love a sweater this much.” She is truly an incredible gift-giver.

The packages I received this evening included the following intentional selections: two cakes from my mother’s favorite Italian bakery; a set of 1200-thread count white cotton sheets for our bed; two nature calendars she received as gifts from the charities to which she donates; two dish towels decorated with sunflowers; two matching sunflower oven mitts; a rustic wooden picture frame; a little silver lizard pin I remember her buying when I was young, and two greeting cards. The first of these cards featured two dogs, trying to squeeze their way through a door. The signatures within were those of Linus and Lily, my parents’ dog and cat, penned on their behalf by my mother. The second card included a generous check and notes from each of my parents. My mother wished me a Happy 38th, lamenting that she would not be here to celebrate with me, while my father scribbled on the bottom, Happy birthday to our one and only little chicken. My eyes watered to see his message, to remember how he had always called me “Chicken” when I was young. I thought of that photo of me he has kept in his wallet since I was in the second grade, of how much he has always adored me no matter our inability to get along.

Yet again, I thought of him, thinking little of my mother.

As the night progressed, however; as I passed the sheets and the picture frame on my way to the bathroom; as I dried my hands on the sunflower dishtowels and saw the cards on my counter, I thought more and more of my mother and the efforts to which she has always gone to make my birthday special. We haven’t always seen each other on my birthday, but this year, I get the impression that she is particularly sad not to be with me. Earlier today, before the packages arrived, I received a card she had sent to me on her own, unbeknownst to my father, it seems. The cover of this one featured a donkey’s head and the words “I’m sorry.” Within, in her notoriously illegible handwriting, my mother yet again apologized for not being able to celebrate my birthday with Sam and I. As far as I can tell, this is entirely my fault for moving all the way to North Carolina. Still, I know my mother would be here if she had the energy to get on a plane. She visited me in Canada and South America when I lived in those places. She slept on couches in houses full of roommates and took buses down harrowing mountain roads. Sometimes, I forget that she did all this to see me, but it strikes me now as tremendously meaningful, especially given my sometimes less than welcoming attitude towards her. In adolescence, my mother was an embarrassment. In young adulthood, she was an annoyance. With heart-wrenching shame, I occasionally recall the time when she accompanied me to a concert at the Gorge in Washington and I yelled at her for not remembering where we had parked. That night, I treated her precisely as my father has treated her for years, and she still spent the rest of the week with me, just as she is still serving him nightly dinners. Co-dependent is the word most people would use to describe their relationship. Indeed, they serve as a model example of the term. Tonight, however, as I looked at my father’s choice of words on that card -“our little chicken”- I realized that I will never know what it’s like to share a child with someone unless I actually have one; that maybe for some, this creates so strong a bond that separation is simply out of the question. Indeed, as much as this “little chicken” suffered in her parents dysfunctional barn, I still had a barn to grow up in, and while I don’t remember my first several years in that barn, they surely remember the whole epic journey, from 0 to now, 38. That’s a hell of an experience to share with another human being, and a hell of a good reason for being sad when the chicken has wandered away.