Birthdays by Mom
(An essay written by 17-year-old me, in my senior English class. I turn 28 this week.)
In a couple of weeks, I will find myself in the aisle of the Party Source with my mother, carefully selecting the color scheme for my 18th birthday party. I will smile as I notice each theme of birthdays past, each set of plates and napkins triggering memories that are so much a part of me. As I pick out the matching plates and cups, I will complain to mom, “They only come in sets of eight!” since I am inviting thirty-three people to my party. Later, we will go to the grocery store, yellow Post-Its in hand, scanning the aisles for the Doritos and Skittles we normally do not buy. By now, my crisp guest list will be creased and tattered from all the pockets it has been stuffed in. The preparations for the 27th of September always start weeks in advance; my mom would not have it any other way.
I have not always played such an intricate part in planning my annual fiesta, but even when I was young, mom would ask me what type of birthday party I wanted. Some years I would reply, “Barbie!” and in other years the reply was, “Aladdin!” and “Soccer!” My role in most of my early birthday parties was to show up, rip open presents, and blow out the candles on my cake. These parties consisted of a slew of games such as Musical Chairs, the Three-Legged Race, and Hot Potato. Looking back on those games, the funniest game had to have been the one in which we jumped for marshmallows that were hanging on strings from our jungle gym. In hindsight, mom probably did that one for her own entertainment. I can remember few details of these occasions, but I do recall some rather random memories. I remember the clown that did a scarf trick on my fourth birthday and one birthday party when my best friend Megan and I wore matching outfits.
The majority of my birthdays have taken place in Louisville, where much has changed with the transitions between elementary, middle, and high school. I had my first sleepover party in the third grade, and it was a very big deal. Each girl arrived with a sleeping bag in one arm, a duffle bag on her shoulder, and a birthday present in hand. We played some of my old favorites, but the new addition was the Scavenger Hunt. There were two teams, and the team who got to the final clue first won. The game involved a lot of running and everyone was exhausted by the end. Later, I learned that this game was an attempt by my mother to tire our energetic elementary bodies so we did not drive her crazy. Not that it would have really bothered her anyway. Mom has always possessed the kind of energy that a good grade school teacher has, she was willing to put up with our hyperactivity without irritation. This was the rather routine birthday until the seventh grade, when my friends and I decided were too grown up for a scavenger hunt.
What exactly led my friends and I to gather all the toilet paper in my house and embark on a rather mischievous excursion to our classmate Bryan’s house? Was it something we saw on MTV or perhaps a prank we had adopted from someone’s older sibling? No, it was an idea we got from my fun-loving mom. After an unexpectedly quick parental approval, we set out to Bryan’s house. Halfway down Grey Owl Court, one of my friends spotted a dark car coming up behind us. We all stared at the car, squinting our eyes under the dim streetlight as we created ridiculous scenarios as to who this mysterious character might be. Being the confident girl that I was, I assured my friends that there was nothing to worry about, and we continued down my street with uncertainty. When we reached Hobbs Station Road, we looked back and the shady car was slowly creeping up my court. The realization that there were no headlights on the car combined with the unexpected tears of Christine suddenly hit us and we took off running down Hobbs Station. My friend Lindsay and I led the pack of nine girls, halfway laughing and halfway panicking, as I recall shouting, “Cross-country, baby!” as we frantically sped down the street. We looked back, and the car was following us, gaining on our seventh-grade bodies with every passing second. By the time we crossed the soccer field and track, we realized that the car was one of my family cars. And the driver was my mom. Needless to say, this birthday party was one of the most memorable for all who “participated.”
The second time around in the eighth grade, my friends and I had the toilet-papering thing down to an art. We set out with a mission: prepared with rolls of Charmin toilet paper, a “The Party’s Here” sign for Bryan’s door, forks for his lawn, sidewalk chalk, and even a piece of cookie cake with a vermilion balloon for the doorstep. My friends and I still recall that toilet-papering event with fond memories as we tell our new friends, “Oh, man, it was the best. You should have seen it.” During middle school I began noticing that my friends would often comment on how “cool” my mom was. I did not think much of it then, but now when a friend says, “I love your mom,” I cannot help but smile.
For my sweet sixteen, I decided to forego the sleepover and instead invite boys to my annual birthday gala. I took a little longer getting ready for my party that year, but that did not stop my mom’s smiling voice from calling me downstairs before the first guest arrived. With her familiar giddiness, she took the traditional picture of me with my cake in the formal living room. After the initial awkwardness, the party turned out a success, as we played Girls versus Guys games and ate birthday cake. Last year, for my seventeenth birthday, my older siblings surprised me with a visit for one of my famous birthday parties. Instead of feeling embarrassed like the typical teenager, I felt at ease because my family has always been a big part of my birthday celebration.
Each of my birthday parties has been special in one way or another, but I expect the memories to fade with time. What I will remember, however, is the anticipation I feel every September when mom says, “You better start making your list.” I have come to look forward to negotiating my guest number with my mom, choosing my color-coordinated birthday decorations, and digging out the aged box that reads, “Birthday” from the unfinished room in my basement. All of these rituals have been a part of every September that I can remember. I imagine my future Septembers will be filled with new friends and celebrations, but I will always hold dear the eighteen birthdays I anticipated with mom.
