We celebrate birthdays in my family. I didn't realize that not everyone does. A birthday is not to be missed. We get our day, and within limits, get to pick where we eat and what we do. By "we", I mean my mom, dad, sister, brother-in-law, nephew, spouse, and I. When we were younger, the birthday meal choice was mom's lasagna or chicken and noodles over mashed potatoes. And dinner was always followed by cake served, for the birthday celebrant, on the ceramic birthday cake-shaped plate that I made when I was a kid. My parents still have the birthday plate glazed in white, yellow, pink, and blue, but these days it's easier to go out to eat somewhere. Pity.
Although I appreciate that someone gave it some thought, I'm not a fan of sorting through the hundreds of birthday cards written for some stereotype of a dad. Father's Day cards are worse.
- A. I didn't drive my dad to drink, prematurely grey, or otherwise behave in a way that would compel me to annually apologize for the hardships I caused.
- B. My dad is not a cartoonish buffoon who can no longer see properly, bathe independently, or tell single-ha! one-liners without Hallmark's hand.
- C. Although he is pretty cool, and despite the faded 1980s SuperDad undershirt that reminds him just how awesome he is, I can't do hardcore, full-blown sap.
So I choose D. None of the Above. Skip the card all together and write a blog instead.
So Dad, on your birthday, I do want to pick just one bone with you as I think about the 38 years we've shared. It has to do with Peter Pan, the little boy who didn't want to grow up. Of course "suffer" is a relative word, but Peter Pan Syndrome is no Neverland. How many people had the kind of childhood they wouldn't mind living over and over? Not many people can relate. I'm kind of ostracized because of the childhood you helped shaped for me. So I suffer on, and I watch as the cycle is perpetuated with my (poor) nephew.
I don't know if you would want to live those years over. You had to fix a lot of cars, buy me a lot of candy bars, hunt for real food, point out the Elm Trees, and spend countless hours teaching me which wildflowers tasted sweet and which were sour. I don't know if you would. But I would.
