Essay

All right, I admit it.  I was that kid who kept a rubber-worm fishing lure as a pet, set traps for aliens forged from empty TicTac boxes, wrote sci-fi stories I tried to sell door to door for a quarter, and invited to my birthday parties one special friend … of my mother’s choosing.  About a week before, I’d find Mom quietly chirping into the phone with her Sunday-school rolodex flipped back on her lap.  I’m sure she was saying something like, “I just thought it’d be nice to get our two shy girls together sometime,” because my birthday attendee would always turn out to be “that kid” too – with a variation.  Maybe she had a collection of rainbow suspenders or a habit of laughing with her mouth closed.  Sheet cakes and streamers and That Kid who refused to take off the H.R. Puffinstuff costume – ah the memories.

What holiday is less connected to its historical roots than Valentine’s Day? Jesus gets a strong shout-out on his birthday. President’s Day may be the perfect occasion for an underwear sale, but at least Washington’s face graces the newspaper ads. Even Punxsutawney Phil got a movie deal. But where is St. Valentine? 

Weeks before February 14, local stores celebrate enthusiastically with cheap jewelry, heart-shaped placemats, heart-themed pajamas, and enough chocolate to keep dentists busy through 2020 – yet Valentine himself is treated more like Voldemort.

Breast cancer wasn’t supposed to happen to me.

Apparently Marie Antoinette never even said it, but I will. I’m talking birthday parties. Forego the fancy and just let them eat cake.
 
When my daughter was three, she went to a party at a gymnastics studio—one of those event parties that serve the dual purposes of placating the spoiled rottens for two hours AND showing off the family resources. Hooray.

So. A triathlon. Otherwise known as “the day I almost went gently into the light while wearing a bike helmet and a discount sports bra.” It was no bueno, people. No bueno at all.

She was getting old. We knew it would happen sooner rather than later, but still we weren’t prepared for the end to come when it did.

“I've had a baby!" my mother exclaimed happily, following the judge's adoption pronouncement on Friday, February 6, 2009 that formally made me her daughter.

“Welcome, parents.”

The pretty teacher smiled as she introduced herself and the rest of the third grade staff on Back-to-School Night.

I wanted to be a chubby mom.

I wanted doughy arms and big bosoms and a comfortable lap to sit in.

I wanted my little nuggets to be enveloped in the soft cushion of my embrace as I squeezed them to my to my heart’s content.

These somewhat crazy aspirations were a lot easier to have when I was comfortably tucked into single-digit jeans. Yes, I’m talking about high school. It was cute then, to think of the perfect world of motherhood, of sweet little cherub children staring up at me with their big doe eyes and listening to my syrupy lullabies as I rocked them to sleep in my loaf-of-bread arms.

Oh to be eight again…

To march from room to room clapping my hands under each raised leg. 

To go a weekend without brushing my hair.