Happy Birthday to me
I don’t usually get personal with these little postings, as hard as that might be to imagine, but this time I thought I would be a little self indulgent. What the hell, right? I have been thinking about writing this story out for some time now, and finally the proper motivation has presented itself. They say God works in mysterious ways, but in my life, God tends to just drop a kitchen sink on my head and laugh at me while I stagger around. No real mysteries here. Today was my son’s ninth birthday. I suppose just his approaching ninth birthday may have been subconsciously stirring up bad memories for me. He was certainly excited about it for quite a while now, and I was happy to see all that excitement pay off for him. He had an absolute blast, and I was thrilled to make that happen for him. We cannot always meet all our children’s expectations in life, and it is a damn fine moment when we as parents are able to literally make their day. So what has me so wound up about this whole birthday thing, anyway? Everything sounds alright so far. Where is that black cloud that seems to follow me around like that kid from the Peanuts cartoon? I was brutally reminded today of my own, very much different ninth birthday. And the continuing fact that I married a woman as much like my own mother as I could possibly find was once again thrown in my face. Don’t take that the wrong way. I am divorced now for some time, but my ex wife is still the woman I married, and she still continues to score off the charts on the mom comparison checklist I have been accumulating for some time now. A day I will never forget. My ninth birthday. Try and bring yourself back with me, if you will, to remember all of the splendid excitement and anticipation we felt as young children, waiting for the big day to arrive. And when it finally gets there? Fuggetaboutit!!! Of the friggin hook, right? That is the way I felt the day I woke up on my ninth birthday. I was instantly awake, full of excitement and joy. It was my birthday. Attention and cake and ice cream and presents were about to be lavished on me, and I couldn’t wait! It was the beginning of summer, as my birthday always seems to be. School was out, and we were staying at our very dear family friend’s farm in
South Jersey for the weekend. There had been a party the night before, and all of the adults were still in bed sleeping it off. This was pretty typical of my childhood, by the way, so I wandered around the house and outside for a while, anticipation mounting. Soon my mom would wake up, and wish me a happy birthday, and then, let the festivities begin! I had breakfast with my sisters and the other kids who lived there, and we went outside to play for a while. Finally my mother woke up, along with most of the other adults, and the day began to take on an ugly shape for me. No one mentioned my birthday. No one. My mother was obviously not feeling very well, as she said nothing to me at all, and promptly went back to bed. Disaster had struck. All my hopes and dreams of a birthday extravaganza were gone. I wondered around outside, alone and dejected, completely lost and absorbed in my dark thoughts. Hours slipped by, the other kids ran around and played, but I was lost in a foggy haze of despair. Finally, one of the adults who lived on the farm, which was a big house split into two full residences, noticed my unusual behavior. She pulled me into her kitchen and asked me what was wrong. I told her it was my birthday and no one had remembered it. God bless Kate. She jumped right into action. She wished me a happy birthday, and said not to worry; she would take care of it. Kate set to work, talking with me and lifting my spirits, all the while putting together a birthday cake for me. She was wonderful. Kate prepared a birthday cake for me from scratch, with candles and everything. I and the other kids had a little celebration with her on her side of the divided house, while my mother convalesced on the other side of the farm house. What a lifesaver Kate was on that day. I can’t remember if my mother ever snapped out of it later that evening and wished me a happy birthday, but I will never forget that cake, and the kindness of the woman who made it for me. Just a few years ago I was sitting in the kitchen of that very farmhouse, chatting with some of the same children who had shared that cake with me. I was telling this story to Indira and Julianna. Gennyfer was at the table as well, with our own children running around the house as we once did. Whenever we get together again as adults, we inevitably get around to telling stories about our times together on the farm as children, and this was no exception. After I was done telling them this particular story, Indira, who has never been one to miss an opportunity to break my balls a bit, says, “Well, I have a few friends who have told me similar stories. I mean, that kind of thing can happen sometimes to anyone. So I don’t think it’s as big a deal as you are making it out to be. Sometimes people can forget important things.” Then she gave me a look, not smug or smarmy or evil, just a certain way of looking at someone you have known for your entire life, and you know you just kinda burst their little bubble. Sort of a right back at ya look. But I was not going to go so gently into that good night. I pulled out my trump card. Always save the best cards for last. My grandpa taught me that lesson repeatedly at the bridge table. “Yes,” I agreed, “I am sure that kind of thing has happened to other people. But my mother’s birthday was THE DAY AFTER MINE!” Indira looked at me with a somewhat shocked expression after that little revelation. “Oh, well,” she said, “that is pretty fucked up then.” Point taken. How often do parents forget their own child’s birthday? I am sure it happens, and some valid excuses can be made. I had my sister run an informal Twitter poll to see if this had happened to anyone else. We got one responder whose parents had forgotten his birthday, but in all fairness to them, he was already in his twenties, and it was just three days after the 9/11 attacks. But what is the excuse when you forget your young child’s birthday, and yours is the very next day? Shit happens, right? Lucy, I think you got some splayning to do! So how does all of this tie into my son’s birthday today? And, at this point in the story, can you see where this is going? Are you thinking what I’m thinking about my ex-wife? Did she really forget her own son’s ninth birthday? And if she did, is it really that bad? Let me lay it out to you like this. Number one, my son had a fantastic birthday. Anything his mother did or didn’t do had very little or no influence over that. She did, in fact, have absolutely no contact with him whatsoever on his birthday today, or at any point over this weekend. No visit, no call, no birthday present. The last time she saw or talked to her son was a week ago. And yes, by a week ago, I do mean seven days. So what’s the situation? Are there extenuating circumstances? What is our custody arrangement, etc, etc? I have full custody of my son. He lives primarily with me. This is the way it has been for six and a half years now. I have never withheld visitation rights from his mother at all. She can see him as much as she wants. Our most recent verbal arrangement was for her to have my son on Tuesday and Thursday evenings overnight, and all day Saturday or Sunday, depending on which weekend day worked best for her. Since we made that arrangement last year, overnights Tuesday and Thursday turned into visits for dinner and then back home to my house. Most recently, this arrangement has deteriorated to three or four hour brunch dates on Sundays, without any visits during the week. Now I know some of you goodhearted people out there are still looking for that silver lining, right? Maybe she lives to far away. The price of gas is still no joke. Maybe she is in a wheelchair. Perhaps she is stricken with the scurvy. Maybe her dog keeps eating her homework. That’s not it. No wheelchair, no scurvy, and no dog. My ex lives the distance of three city blocks from my house. It’s a six minute walk from our front door to hers. No driving required. You could crawl there in about fifteen minutes on your hands and knees. I don’t know how many of you reading this are parents yourselves. But you all had your own ninth birthdays at one time or another. So just consider this. Three blocks away. No call, no visit, no present. Nothing.
And the trump card I have been saving for the end of this one? My ex called me the day before my son’s birthday. Twice. Once to ask me in a roundabout way for money, as her rent is late this month, and also to tell me how sick she was feeling. The second time was later that night. She was feeling worse, and had no food in the house at all. She didn’t feel up to getting out to the store, even though in my previous discussion with her earlier that afternoon, she had actually been out and about, driving in her car. She asked me if I would bring her some soup. After all, it is only three blocks from here to there. Not once in either of those conversations did she mention my son’s impending birthday, or ask to speak with him. And here is the kicker. I decided to bring her a package of Ramen Noodles. What the heck. They cost fifteen cents, and I can make the round trip driving there in less than ten minutes. My sister thinks I am a jackass for doing things like this, but for better or for worse, that is the kind of guy I am. I asked my son if he wanted to ride along with me to go see his mommy, who wasn’t feeling very well. After all, he hadn’t seen or talked to her in a week. He respectfully declined the invitation.
He never says a bad word about his mother. He seems happy to see her most of the time, but its obvious to me that all of her negligence and sideways neglect of him has had its effect on him. Just as much as she cannot seem to be bothered to see him or talk with him on any regular basis, he can no longer be bothered as well. He would rather stay home and watch his shows and play with his toys than make the effort to take a three minute ride to see his sick mother the day before his birthday. And that is a crying shame in my book. ‘Nuff said.
This entry was posted on 22. September 2009 at 01:35 and is filed under Memories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response or trackback from your own site.