ninanevermore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ninanevermore) wrote2010-05-10 05:24 pm
ninanevermore) wrote2010-05-10 05:24 pm
Entry tags:
Monday – Mother’s Day & Father’s Birthday
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For the first time in a long time, I didn’t forget my father’s birthday this year. I have the internet to thank for this. My memory is not wired to remember birthdays. Actually, it seems wired to forget them. I remember my husband’s, but only sometimes. I remember my son’s, probably because I have a lot wrapped up in that day (his arrival was a life-changing event for me; most people’s birthdays are not). I am generally aware of what month the birth of people close to me occurred during, but I always forget the exact day. This last Saturday it occurred to me that my father’s birthday is in May, and I knew it falls around Mother’s Day because of the times I’ve visited the house to have my son deliver a Mother’s Day card to my father’s wife only to have her take me aside and tell me, “You know your father’s birthday was this last week.”
I really hate it when she does that.
I sat down at the computer and Googled my father’s full name to see if I could figure out his birthday (a bit of information a good, or at least adequate, daughter would have known already. The most I ever aim for in life is mediocrity, though, because I do mediocre better than anyone else). My father’s name is unique enough that when I put it into a search engine, it pulls up information on him instead of a list of some doppelgangers. He’s also old enough that several of the genealogical websites with family trees assembled by distant cousins I’ve never met list him and include his birthday. It told me May 9th, 1932. I looked up at the calendar on the wall: it was May 8th. Cool. Perhaps my acknowledging #78 would make up for my having missed #s 77, 76, and 66 through 74. My stepmother threw him a surprise party for #75. The fact that I got an email invitation may make that a moot point, though.
So this was the year I was going to get it right and work my way back into “the will.” Whenever there is an event like a birthday, holiday, or anniversary at my father’s house they always display all the cards on a little table next to the door to the patio. When you stop to look at the cards, my father always says, “Are you looking to see who’s still in the will?” After all these years, I’m not entirely sure that he’s kidding.
I had a cute mother’s day card signed by my 5 year old son for my stepmom, which I usually remember to do because the fact that Mother’s Day is coming up is plastered wherever I look (especially if I’m looking inside of a retail store that sells cards and flowers). But this year I also had a gift and cards for my father’s birthday, which is not advertized anywhere except for those obscure genealogical websites maintained by those distant cousins of mine who never get my mother’s name right. I even baked a dewberry cobbler for my dad, which I was certain would not only get me back in the will, it would give me star status. Dewberry cobblers are a local delicacy that my Chicago-born stepmother does not make. My right hand and forearm are battle scarred with nicks and scratches from picking those dewberries off their thorny vines, so I alone amongst my siblings and siblings suffered and bled to get my dad a birthday treat he would enjoy. On top of that, I would deliver up his little grandson for a visit. This year, I was doing great.
We showed up at my father’s house and I unloaded everything from the car: the gift bag, the cobbler, the cards…
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“What?” my son asked.
“We forgot grandma’s mother’s Day card.”
My little boy had been hankering for a visit to his grandfather’s house all day, asking are we going now? over and over while I baked the cobbler, wrapped the gift, and so on. He leaned up against the bricks of the house and gave me a cool look through narrowed eyes.
“I’m staying here. You can go back to the house and get it.”
It’s a 20 mile, 40 minute drive between my father’s house and mine. “We’ll just mail it,” I told him.
I guess I’m only half in the will. Since mediocrity is my strong point, even my best efforts have a way of falling short. Unless you count my dewberry cobblers, that is: I was told it was excellent. I may not be an outstanding daughter, but sometimes I bake like one.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t forget my father’s birthday this year. I have the internet to thank for this. My memory is not wired to remember birthdays. Actually, it seems wired to forget them. I remember my husband’s, but only sometimes. I remember my son’s, probably because I have a lot wrapped up in that day (his arrival was a life-changing event for me; most people’s birthdays are not). I am generally aware of what month the birth of people close to me occurred during, but I always forget the exact day. This last Saturday it occurred to me that my father’s birthday is in May, and I knew it falls around Mother’s Day because of the times I’ve visited the house to have my son deliver a Mother’s Day card to my father’s wife only to have her take me aside and tell me, “You know your father’s birthday was this last week.”
I really hate it when she does that.
I sat down at the computer and Googled my father’s full name to see if I could figure out his birthday (a bit of information a good, or at least adequate, daughter would have known already. The most I ever aim for in life is mediocrity, though, because I do mediocre better than anyone else). My father’s name is unique enough that when I put it into a search engine, it pulls up information on him instead of a list of some doppelgangers. He’s also old enough that several of the genealogical websites with family trees assembled by distant cousins I’ve never met list him and include his birthday. It told me May 9th, 1932. I looked up at the calendar on the wall: it was May 8th. Cool. Perhaps my acknowledging #78 would make up for my having missed #s 77, 76, and 66 through 74. My stepmother threw him a surprise party for #75. The fact that I got an email invitation may make that a moot point, though.
So this was the year I was going to get it right and work my way back into “the will.” Whenever there is an event like a birthday, holiday, or anniversary at my father’s house they always display all the cards on a little table next to the door to the patio. When you stop to look at the cards, my father always says, “Are you looking to see who’s still in the will?” After all these years, I’m not entirely sure that he’s kidding.
I had a cute mother’s day card signed by my 5 year old son for my stepmom, which I usually remember to do because the fact that Mother’s Day is coming up is plastered wherever I look (especially if I’m looking inside of a retail store that sells cards and flowers). But this year I also had a gift and cards for my father’s birthday, which is not advertized anywhere except for those obscure genealogical websites maintained by those distant cousins of mine who never get my mother’s name right. I even baked a dewberry cobbler for my dad, which I was certain would not only get me back in the will, it would give me star status. Dewberry cobblers are a local delicacy that my Chicago-born stepmother does not make. My right hand and forearm are battle scarred with nicks and scratches from picking those dewberries off their thorny vines, so I alone amongst my siblings and siblings suffered and bled to get my dad a birthday treat he would enjoy. On top of that, I would deliver up his little grandson for a visit. This year, I was doing great.
We showed up at my father’s house and I unloaded everything from the car: the gift bag, the cobbler, the cards…
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“What?” my son asked.
“We forgot grandma’s mother’s Day card.”
My little boy had been hankering for a visit to his grandfather’s house all day, asking are we going now? over and over while I baked the cobbler, wrapped the gift, and so on. He leaned up against the bricks of the house and gave me a cool look through narrowed eyes.
“I’m staying here. You can go back to the house and get it.”
It’s a 20 mile, 40 minute drive between my father’s house and mine. “We’ll just mail it,” I told him.
I guess I’m only half in the will. Since mediocrity is my strong point, even my best efforts have a way of falling short. Unless you count my dewberry cobblers, that is: I was told it was excellent. I may not be an outstanding daughter, but sometimes I bake like one.
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It's ok...they (hopefully) understand. My sis-in-law hates me for this type of thing though, her big thing is she doesn't think we spend enough on gifts for her family and her mom, especially considering what SHE spends for gifts. You know, I try to see it as her problem though sometimes my husband will get suckered into spending $100-200 for his share of a mother's day gift to his mom (who happens to be very well off and we are slightly above what the government calls "the poverty line")
I hope your relatives were understanding!
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