Queen for a Day
It’s September 5th in New Zealand (still the 4th in the States). My birthday. I thought I might brush this one off. I’ve been grumpy. It’s been six weeks since the Husband got laid off. Neither of us knows what’s next, so we’re living in limbo with my knee-jerk panic and sense of frustration we haven’t figured this out – yesterday.
Earlier this week, I told Facebook: forget my birthday. Changed the setting so no one can attach September 5th to me. Except my family and close friends, including my running mates, who know this day is mine. But why should legions of people online, many of whom I don’t know personally, know it’s my birthday? Who needs well wishes from around the world? Apparently, me.
I had a change of heart last night and whispered to Fb: “Go ahead, tell my friends about the birthday. Google was going to let the cat out of the bag, anyway.”
I set my alarm for 5:30 this morning. I hit snooze once, popping up at 5:40. I check my phone and see an email alert from my friend, Leanne, whose birthday is close to mine (tomorrow? Gosh, I’m horrible remembering birthdays!). My fellow Virgo is one of the most thoughtful people I know (she’s also a talented TV reporter in LA: http://abc7.com/about/newsteam/leanne-suter/ )
My day’s already off to a good start, since I’m thinking of Suter (we all called each other by surnames at the TV station where we met in Grand Rapids, Michigan). I check her anonymous Facebook profile to see if I can suss out her birthday. The only picture she’s tagged in shows a Superman doll sitting in Sean’s hospital room, plus pictures of Fiona and Finley I’d taped to the wall. Leanne and her then-husband had sent Superman to help Sean heal.
I slip into the next room – a spare bedroom/office, where I press my phone’s meditation app, which is set to chime after seven minutes. It’s about all my monkey mind can handle. During these seven minutes, I listen to the ocean outside the windows, think about what I want my birthday to mean and say nice things to myself. I’m a slightly-less-geeky version of the SNL character Stuart Smalley, who says, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.” Unlike Stuart, I do not practice before a mirror.
Gray wisps of cotton wool feather the skies over the Mount beach as I pound the sand for a five- kilometre run. My left knee’s still a grumpy old man – he feels about 84-years-old, while the rest of me feels 24. I’d be in better shape now – at 44 – than I was twenty years ago, if it weren’t for the achy, possibly torn bits of tendon scratching about the inside of my knee. No sunrise run up the Mount this year.
There’s no sun, anyway. Day breaks without the orange fire ball rising from the Pacific. Seagulls skitter at the shoreline and squawk overhead. None of them bombard my head. This is a good sign. I pass a man walking two German shorthair pointers. Another sign. They remind me of my dogs, Greta and Baron, growing up. One dog ran away and the other was hit by a car.
After the run, I’m clambering up the narrow wooden spiral staircase from the garage when the kids yell, “Don’t come up! Close your eyes!”
I drop the empty recycling bin and do as instructed. “Here, put this in front of your face,” says Fiona, holding a newspaper. She walks me to the dining room table and says, “Okay, open your eyes.”
“Surprise!” shouts Finley, Fiona and Pete. The kids motion to the table, while my husband places strips of uncooked bacon into a large pan with surgical precision.
Cards, flowers, a bottle of bubbly, two small boxes of chocolates and a bag with Fiona’s writing sit atop the dining table. My eyes well. Such care and planning to have it all here at seven a.m. I take turns giving my family sweaty hugs. I open the card from Pete first. Inside is a voucher for a white water rafting trip. He listened when I told him, “No electronics. Nothing useful.” Just an experience with him.
Finley’s card includes a coupon for laundry soap, candy, four dollars in change and a 20-dollar bill, which I return to him.
Fiona’s present is a red plush doll made of felt whose stitching is starting to unravel between the legs. “I made it in my spare time,” she says. “I even brought it to school.”
I shower and get dressed while listening to my favorite radio show, "This American Life." The episode called “Back to School” http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/474/back-to-school talks about how children learn. And how they don’t learn if they grow up with chaos and stress at home. I think about my kids’ early years and develop a new theory: maybe the kids have attached so well to Pete (despite what Fiona says, she adores him) because they felt so much love from Sean. Their father gave them security from birth. Their stepfather will provide stability throughout their lives.
Pete serves me a microwaved egg on toast with coffee and bacon. It tastes like a weekend morning. Like love.
After breakfast, the kids decorate cupcakes for a school celebration. Apparently, today is also the birthday of their mascot, Mountie. Fiona and Finley spread the cupcakes with green icing which they layer with sprinkles, M&M’s and lollipops. I drive them to school. The last glimpse of my small fries is Fiona ahead, Finley walking behind, carrying an ice cream container of cupcakes, wearing a black cowboy hat. They fought about who would wear the black hat.
What else do I want to do on my day? Write. This blog is an indulgence, one I don’t allow myself as much as I’d like. I’m in the middle of listening to a podcast called, “Our Friend David,” http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/472/our-friend-david
which I pause. It’s impossible to concentrate on my own pithy prose while listening to a genius like (the late) David Rakoff who wrote about chicken poop as “olfactory insult.” I’m sad he died of cancer in 2012 at age 47. Just as I was sad to learn Joan Rivers died today at age 81.
Rakoff and Rivers endure not in heartbeats and breaths but in words. Which is part of this birthday writing exercise. Long after my ashes have blown off the Mount, disappeared over Spokane Falls or dissipated into Lake Erie, my words will remain – for everyone who chooses to read or ignore them. Happy birthday to me – cheers to what we keep: love of words. Words. And love.
*Note: I downloaded the This American Life app from iTunes for $2.99 and got the whole podcast library.