Family Patterns

My parents never showed much interest in birthdays when I was kid. “Its not that we forget about your birthday, sweetie. They just weren’t a big deal in my house growing up.”

Yeah, well. Mine either.

What’s funny is that as a kid, it never bother me. I thought it was a cute family quirk. Something my siblings and I can bond over. We would joke with our friends that our parents forget our birthdays because they have so many of us to keep track of. Being one of six, that would sell. Even get some laughs. In hindsight, it wasn’t very funny.

Now that I have a kid of my own, I’ve decided that was bullshit the whole time.

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“Hey Mom, can you call up Izzie and see what she can do about this reset your password business?”

Joe and Debs have been happily married since they both moved to Chicago almost 55 years ago. After raising six kids, they still can’t shake the habit of calling each other Mom and Dad. As if they have a performance to play in front of a toddler, titled House.

“Password to what?” My mom, or Debs was caught between unamused by the technological incompetence of her husband and embarrassment she likely couldn’t resolve the petty issue herself.

“My Amazon keeps asking me what street I grew up on. What the hell does that verify anyways? Don’t they know my Apple takes a finger print every time I log in to this damn computer?!”

As an immigrant tradesmen working with his hands since 1964, there was a gap in understanding technology that was even greater than the average 82 year old. Joe had lived through enough change by the time he was 24 to account for a lifetime. Learning to digitize his life now was simply not a priority. And given one of his own kids has some fancy job at what they call a FinTech company, she could finagle past this tech nightmare for him, right?

“Your passwords are sticky-tabbed on the bottom of the computer screen, Dad. See? Amazon, right there.”

“God blessed. Has anyone seen my glasses? What does this say here now.”

As a Capricorn, Joe knew all too well what it was like having a birthday right after the holidays. People tend to forget. Or even if they don’t, they’re tired. Remembering, let alone celebrating a birthday one week after the New Year was simply not in the cards in rural Ireland circa 1940. It’s cold and the family is downright exhausted from all the work that goes into feeding ten people and scraping together “presents” from Saint Nick.

Fast forward to today, Joe decided that was not going to be the case for his Julia. Ten years old already. It feels like his daughter Izzie was around that age not too long ago. It's as if his own daughter’s tenth birthday was closer in his memory than her wedding day. Memory can be a strange thing like that; distorting proximity and transcending time. Yet when it comes to his own ninth, tenth, or any birthday from childhood, he can’t seem to remember it.

Suddenly, Joe snapped out of his trance.

Add to Cart.

How does that saying go? ‘You can’t take it with you.’ Once upon a time paying this much for headphones would have made him sick. But now? Who cares. At this point the far away pyramids and towers he never got around to visiting don’t feel as important anymore. He wants to see his people. The friends he has left, his wife, his family. Who knows, these headphones might be a gift to both Julia and Izzie. How much pop music blaring through the house all winter break could a mom take?

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The girls-only slumber party was scheduled for the 3rd Friday of January. Ten kids piling into our basement with Rosati’s pizza, Olivia Rodrigo, and the old JBL speaker was thankfully enough to qualify as a ten-year old birthday extravaganza. I settled on baking the cake instead of ordering one from the local grocery store and figured my daughter, Julia, could pick out her own candles. A little autonomy goes a long way at this age and if it’ll shave twenty bucks off the party cost, Julia could have which ever candle arrangement and Betty Crocker frosting flavor she wants.

That Friday after school, I was placing the cake in the oven before a last-minute vacuum downstairs when my dad called.

“Hey-hey sweetie! How’s the birthday girl doing today? Is she getting ready to see her favorite grandpa?” My dad boomed. I couldn’t tell if he was rallying up some well-intentioned excitement around the night or misplaced the minor detail that the actual birthday was the following Tuesday. At 82, it didn’t matter to me. Him and my mom were coming. They remembered. And that meant so much more to me than if it was my own tenth birthday.

“Hi Dad! Oh, she can’t wait. She’s had her pjs on since she came home from school and the speaker has been sitting on the charger for two days straight.” Julia and her younger cousin, Charlie, were going to be in their semi-matching PJs from the holidays. A gift for all the grandkids from my mom last Christmas. I figured at eight years old, being the youngest girl at the slumber party might be intimidating enough for Charlie. Having coordinating outfits with your cooler and older cousin, the birthday girl at that, just might be the touch of inclusivity to even the scales with the rest of the classmates. God, I hope everyone plays nice.

“How are you guys? Hey Mom!”

“Glad to hear it, Izzie. You only turn ten once! Good thing she’s got mom around to make it special. And I think Mom here might have found something to go nicely with that speaker you got.” I accept this for what it was. An indirect apology for the birthdays long forgotten and missed. I gladly accepted, of course.

“Hi, honey!,” From my mom. “Don’t let Dad spoil the fun surprise.”

I laugh politely as I feel them not-so-quietly gather themselves after Dad’s slip up. I can perfectly picture the stare and glare routine they have down so perfectly. They absolutely hated not presenting a unified front to their kids.

“Hey, you know I’ll take any reason for a good time! It’s always special when you and Mom can make it.”

“Dad, don’t miss the turn here. I think it’s telling us to get off soon?” My mom says in the background. A nervous driver and passenger who enters directions to anywhere she goes despite living in this city for 20 years. Sometimes I think just knowing how to use Waze makes her feel young.

“Izz, we got to go. Our personal navigator, Alexis here, is trying to direct us.” My Dad loves the mock-luxury bit he has with any form of technology glamorizing his life. When I got him an automatic start for his car, he half-joked about his chauffeur for a full year.

“Alexa is at home, Dad. I’m just using Waze.”

“See you guys soon! Be careful!” I quipped as I lugged the vacuum cleaner down to stairs.

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At 4:30pm sharp, my Mom, Dad, my sister-in-law and Charlie all arrived at the same time. Perfect. Family time before the other guests arrive helps keep the chaos down for my parents. And having Charlie already here with Julia as the rest of the girls wander in might have reassured me more than it does Charlie when it comes to meshing the group.

“Happy Birthday my Julia!” Sang my mom upon my parents arrival. Such a grandeur, fairy godmother-like grandma. Its so funny seeing your parents who were once so strict and scary to you transition to soft, hype-beast grandparents.

“GRANDma!” Screamed Julia.

Damn, girl I thought. What a display of enthusiasm. My mom beamed as if she was the girl of the night.

Julia sees my Dad waddling through the door next and gives me a nervous look.

“Does he know boys aren’t allowed?” She whispers in a scream. That was my one rule about the birthday invites. No boys allowed, but all the girls in class get an invite.

My sister-in-law pulls into the driveway next with Charlie in the backseat. They get out of the car with dollar store balloons and pajamas already on. It was the cutest sight I wanted to run upstairs and throw my own pajamas on.

“Hi Charlie!” Screams Julia. Then, since kids have no time for bullshit, “Grandpa is here but it’s okay that he’s a boy because he’s our Grandpa.”

“Yeah!”, nods Charlie with a serious eyebrow knit. It's as if she was in on this determination that Julia just made up on the spot.

“Auntie Iz,” she turns to me. “Its okay, Grandpa isn’t a boy because he is our Grandpa”. So close! I think.

“Fair enough!” I say back. They both visibly relax.

Once that was settled, my Dad presented a tiny wrapped box. I froze and looked at my sister-in-law. We exchanged a silent, telepathic conversation that only moms, sisters, and women can do.

I had no idea, I swear.

Relax, she’s well-versed on how birthday parties go.

Then, right on queue Charlie yells.

“No, Grandpa. It's NOT my birthday. So just wait until schools is over for mine! Right mom? Its Julia’s birthday only today.” Charlie meant business tonight.

In a blink of an eye, the tiny little box was torn open into pieces, the girls were in hysterics, and my parents looked like they could have jumped up and down in a circle they were so electrified.

It was a pair of air pods.

Thanks Grandma and Grandpa I say loudly; a demonstration. Julia and Charlie echo my words in sing-song. As if a joint gift.

I give my sister-in-law an apologetic look. A message: I didn’t know about the Air pods!

She smiles genuinely and shrugs.

“Wow, you guys did NOT have to do that”, I tell my parents while the girls each put one earbud in.

Embarrassed they made a scene, my parents dismiss this with a wave.

“What was your tenth birthday like, Grandpa?! Did you have a sleepover too? Was Grandma allowed to come?”, asks Julia.

“Oh yes, my tenth birthday was a lot like yours. Spent it with all my friends and the best homemade cake my mom could whip up” lied my dad. He gives me a look. I piece it together.

They didn't know what they were doing. Nobody does. Myself included.

It’s okay, I’m okay. I’m not seriously going to breakdown over some stupid AirPods right now, am I?

And just like that, I got it. I understood what this tiny box really meant. Thank you for doing better where we could not.

If only they knew just how good they did.