The Birthday Gift

“I can’t wait to see you and give you your birthday present!” my youngest daughter Maddie, flying to DC from Austin, Texas, texted.

“This trip is my present — and you all taking time off to join me,” I replied. “I’m so excited!”

My oldest daughter Cassie and I were already at the airport, comfortably settled in the United lounge at Dulles Airport using the free passes that come with our credit cards. We ordered celebratory champagne at the bar, filled plates with snacks from the buffet, and awaited Maddie’s arrival. Nickie, my middle daughter, would fly straight to Paris from New York and meet us at Charles de Gaulle Airport in the morning. We’d spend the next three days and nights celebrating my late-March birthday and recent retirement, as well as the baby daughter Nickie was expecting in early July.

“On my way to the United Lounge,” Maddie texted 10 minutes later. “Can you meet me outside with my pass?”

“Yes, but there are two lounges. Make sure you come to the one near Gates 40–85.”

“I know!” Of course she knew, she knew everything. I headed out to the front desk with her pass.

“Where are you? I’m here.”

“Maddie, you’re not here — you must have gone to the wrong lounge. I’m near Gate 50.”

“Oh shit, ok on my way.”

My bright and shiny girl appeared, and we had a long hug. I hadn’t seen her since Christmas three months before. We made our way to the back of the lounge where Cassie was saving three seats in a quiet corner. More hugs, smiles and compliments about everyone’s hair and outfits — we had of course given an inordinate amount of thought to what to wear for a girls’ weekend in gay Paree. Maddie, in a striped top, plaid jacket, black leggings with knee high boots and a jaunty bucket hat, declared she would be channeling Emily of Netflix fame the whole weekend.

She took off her jacket as she sat down across from me. “Are you ready for your present?” she asked excitedly.

“Maddie, I really wasn’t expecting anything,” I repeated.

“Good,” Cassie chuckled, “because I didn’t get you one.”

“Mine is special,” Maddie beamed and rolled up the right sleeve of her short-sleeved top. “Ta da!”

“Oh damn, I need my phone for this!” Cassie said, laughing at the shocked look on my face. She quickly pointed her phone at me and started to record.

“Maddie, you’re kidding, right? It’s not real.” I closed my gaping mouth and smiled hopefully.

“Of course it’s real! It’s an homage to you, mommy!”

I looked at the large wreath encircling the words Mom that filled her outer bicep area, the kind of thing sailors used to get during shore leave after a night on the town. My crazy quirky 30-year-old daughter had gotten a Mom tattoo on her arm — this daughter that knows how much I detest all her tattoos, and there were now close to 10. This daughter who had spent the previous 10 years pointing out all my flaws and grave mistakes as a mother, sometimes good humoredly, more often in fury and tears. This daughter who’d been in therapy off and on throughout her 20’s, and primarily blamed her need for that on me.

“Wow, I’m at a loss for words, sweetie,” I fumbled, my smile more strained by the second. Cassie continued to record and laugh uproariously at the scene. “Mom, your face, hahahah!”

Maddie continued to smile brightly, goading me to like it, daring me not to.

“Well it’s really something sweetie, that’s for sure. I am honored. I truly am speechless,” I laughed.

“And aren’t you clever to show me this in public, and also as a gift to ME, so I can’t be mad about you getting another tattoo.”

“Right?!” Maddie looked like the cat that ate the canary.

“Very clever indeed,” I said to the iPhone. “OK well, happy birthday to me, cheers!”

I lifted my drink, toasted them both, and drained my glass. Paris here we come.