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In my youth, birthdays were celebrated with family--my mom's family to be exact, the only family I truly knew since my dad's family had migrated south to sunny Florida before I was born, most likely to escape the dull gray sky that enveloped the Michigan landscape for months on end. But, I can't be sure. I never asked. I just knew them as the Florida grandparents and aunts--and eventually cousins, relative strangers who were surprisingly bossy when we visited once a year.
I think my only party at an actual venue was my first. I've seen the picture of my unnaturally white-faced great aunt and mom on either side of me while I sat in a highchair, face smeared with frosting. Another with my dad in a red and white striped old-timey hat, white button down, and bow tie, the uniform at the Farrell's Ice Cream Parlour where he worked--again I'm assuming--his second job. My dad always had a second job and sometimes a third, to make ends meet, to feed his family without having to stand in the welfare line, a phrase he spat out with disdain, even though he was a social worker.
The "parties" I remember were not filled with balloons and streamers and friends and games and clowns or princesses at kid-friendly venues. They were family gatherings with a table full of food and a cake my talented aunt crafted--I even got a Barbie cake one year much to my mother's chagrin that I would even ask for such a ridiculous cake, an obvious sign she was more cut out to be a boy mom--either at our house or my grandparent's house on the lake, my sisters and a gaggle of cousins running wild over the expansive yards once we were kicked out of the house for being too rambunctious, warming ourselves in the sunlight in the middle of June, warm enough to form sweat on your lip without being drenched, flags adorning everyone's homes--it was Flag Day after all. (Later I would be teased by kids that my birthday was on "Fag Day," and even though I had no idea what they meant, I would burn with embarrassment, knowing by their laughs it was something I should be embarrassed about, much like my last name, Schulert, easily converted to Sherbet. "Annmarie Sherbet with her Fag Day birthday," they would taunt. Why are kids such assholes?)
"Dad, why does everyone have a flag up today?" I remember asking while we drove down the streets where flags were gently blowing in the breeze. I remember his answer, the answer I was conceited enough to believe for years, "Because it's your birthday and everyone is celebrating." Typical dad answer.
Fast forward to Florida, away from the comfort of sprawling yards, perfect mild June days, the gaggle of cousins, the aunts and uncles I had know for years, the grandmother we left behind, my grandfather,Bampa--really a second dad--rotting in a grave in Michigan, birthdays morphed into something smaller. Still no friend parties--it just wasn't the tradition in my house. I don't remember celebrating with the Florida family--the family I felt disconnected from, cousins who were babies as I was entering puberty, grandparents I regarded with odd curiosity since I really only spent once a year with them from age 1-10. All of our houses were cramped with small yards and no one to run around with anyway except my sisters, but I was getting too old to run around in yards, at least in my opinion. My Florida grandmother commented more than once, "You popped out an adult; you never really acted like a child." How would she know? I'm sure I seemed that way to her when she saw me once a year, uncomfortable and afraid to misbehave in her house with her rules and her threats to spank us when we did act silly.
Without my talented cake-making aunt, my mom resorted to cake mix from a box to make a special flag cake, decorated with white frosting from a can, blueberries for the stars, and strawberries for the stripes. To this day, I am not a cake fan--I wonder why?
What I do remember is the birthday meal. Any other day, my mom had meals planned out in advance, no questions like "What is everyone is in the mood for?" Meals were presented, and we were expected to eat them and appreciate them, and in retrospect, I do. Meals were how my mom showed her love. But, strict budgets kept us on a tight food rope, no rummaging for snacks at all hours. I also appreciate the act of sitting down and eating together every day--until my first job interrupted that schedule. But, when home, we sat at the table and ate together. This is one thing I kept up as long as I could with my own--even if some nights we ate without John because of his long work hours. Sundays were sacred, even after the kids were older. Alyssa used to come over even after we moved her into her townhouse. Sunday suppers, my Michigan grandmother, Mum, would call them.
Back to the birthday meal. On your birthday, you got to choose whatever you wanted to eat for dinner. I remember almost always choosing lasagna. There were two things my mom rarely made, claiming they were too time consuming and tedious: mashed potatoes (?) and lasagna (which I get). Even though her lasagna wasn't traditional (although I had no idea at the time) with its cottage cheese filling (according to my mom an acceptable sub for ricotta--which was probably more expensive) pepperoni and black olive topping, I still loved it. I remember my mouth watering as it baked, checking on it as it sat for the requisite 15 minutes after being removed from the oven, watching that timer like a hawk.
The best part was--brace yourselves here--the hunk of cold lasagna I would eat for breakfast the next day. Even when my parents buckled and bought a microwave, I would scoop out the largest piece I could find and eat it with my hands, as if it were a piece of pizza. My mom would get so irritated, but she allowed it, even though I wasn't the birthday girl anymore.
My own children had birthday parties, sometimes at venues, sometimes at our house. They weren't elaborate affairs, but we did have two sets of family and our friends when they were little and then just their friends as drop-off parties became appropriate. Sometimes, they even had two--a family and a friend party. One thing they always did get was the birthday dinner of their choice, often at a restaurant, but hey, they still chose. It was their special day, no flags flying, but celebrated nonetheless.
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