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.

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.

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.

We were at Legoland in San Diego, having shelled out entirely too much money to wander amongst the somewhat odd Danish version of Disneyland, when I noticed it. Dozens upon dozens of parents watching their children clamber over stacked-brick versions of lions and giraffes, watching the fun unfold through the pixilated screen of a camera. Taking snapshots of their kids' lives in three-second increments.

Hey, turn to daddy and smile. Click.

Quit pulling your sister's hair. Click.

No, no, no! Don't put your hands in your pants! Click.

One afternoon after a hot day at school and a sweaty ride home on scorching black leather Volvo seats, the kids ran directly into the pool with their clothes on.

1994

Shifts on the Crisis Hotline followed a pattern. Some callers wanted basic information about food, clothing, or shelter; others needed to hold on, white-knuckled, to life until the suicidal urge had passed. Some callers were “regulars,” the mentally ill who called to hear a familiar voice. I could depend on this formula, shift after shift.

Then there was Mother’s Day.