My parents were always so inventive with my birthdays. They were mostly at my house or in my backyard, not extravagant, no visiting Disney Princesses or anything, but they were far from average.
The first one I remember is around 4 or 5. My mom made red capes and put our names on the back. We zoomed around the backyard for ours: little superheroes with cake on our cheeks and fingers.
Then, there was the Spiderman birthday. While I was sleeping, my mom (and dad?) threaded black yarn throughout my bedroom. It was a small room, so the yarn went from wall to wall, this way and that, all the way around me, so that when I woke up, it looked like I was caught in a web. But not just any web: Spiderman’s web. I was floored. The whole birthday was Spiderman-themed, and all my friends came over later in the day, but the best part was knowing Spiderman had visited me on my birthday.
Then came the treasure hunts. All over the yard and in the garage, even in the car in the driveway. The clues all pointed to me: things I loved, experiences we had together, moments that happened, objects that were special to me. Someone would read the clue, and then I’d shout out the answer, and we’d all run full speed down the hill, up the hill, across the driveway. My friends probably didn’t know where we were running, but there’s enough joy in running a full sprint, possibly more when you don’t have a finish line.
I remember one year, my folks took me to Chuck E. Cheese. We almost never went to Chuck E. Cheese. But, like any pre-teen, it was always on my mind. Behind the woman at the counter was a sign that read, “We give quarters for good grades. Show us your report card, and you get free games.” I turned to my parents to see if we could run home to grab my report card cuz I was a bit of a nerd, and my dad was standing behind me with a big grin on his face, and my report card in hand. Aw man. Those quarters may have well been gold.
When I got older, and I didn’t want birthday parties but still sort of wanted birthday parties, my mom would invite all my friends over: soccer friends, school friends, after-school friends. I remember one year she burnt the cake to a crisp, and then she ran out and got another one. But the cool thing was she left out the burnt cake on the dining room table and put a sign on it that said something like “Sad Cake” which made us all laugh. We actually ended up eating that cake too. Since it was burnt, it stuck together real good, which was great for grab-and-go eating. One of us always had a handful of the stuff as we talked about girls and our lame teachers.
From college on, because I wasn’t living at home anymore, both my folks would call and both had the same approach every year, though vastly different from each other.
My dad: “Happy Birthday. You old motherfucker! Lol.” (The lol part was him. Then me. Then both of us. Every year.)
My mom took a more eloquent tack. She was always the first one to call me — never failed. Before I could even say hi, she’d launch into the story of how I was born.
And what a story it was!
I never made it to the hospital. Picture my dad driving 100 miles and hour in a Ford LTD, my mom with her feet up on the dash, doing that breathing thing.
“I was hoping the cops pulled me over!” said my dad.
And then my mom, with her unorthodox way of thinking: “I was worried a trucker was going to go by, look down and see me with my legs spread.”
I know the story well.
I was born in the car, well, just outside of it, in the hospital parking lot. I came shooting out into a pillowcase held by a doctor wrangled by my dad while my mom clenched as hard as she could and tried to keep me away from the world for just a little bit longer — something she never tried to do again. Ever.
I absolutely love saying I was born in a car, just like I love saying I wore earrings to 5th grade, was Class Individual in high school, and was caught on camera asleep at my college graduation.
I like being different.
I’d like to think the whole being-born-in-a-car thing started it all — set me up for life to not be normal — but there are other, more significant factors that shaped me.
Genetics.
And unconditional love flowing in from 2 directions, like a tidal wave, a relentless sunbeam, a beautiful song, reaching into me always and forever.
Thanks, mom and dad, for giving me life. For filling me up when I empty out. And for letting me find my own way, however crooked and untraveled the path.
I’m good.