Stephen’s 7th birthday went more or less like this. It was his real birthday, therefore a family day. His choice of activity: Splashdown Beach water park.
I awoke on this day, like many others, with a headache. Let the roller coaster of emotion and decision making begin!
I have a cake to frost for tomorrow’s party and, despite the endless trips to ridiculous places like The Christmas Tree Shop where, along with party bits, I somehow leave with a 10 pound bag of birdseed and gluten-free pancake mix, I still need a few things for this cake.
Did I mention it’s an octopus mold in full-on 3-D? This cake is the embodiment of the constant tension between keeping it simple and doing what I want.
Do I, like one who is now wise enough to pace herself, miss Splashdown and instead frost this ambitious cake early, risking my son’s disappointment that I am probably projecting onto him?
Fuck it! I decide to go along and as I am running out the door, chasing the car as they are pulling out of the driveway, my heart sinks.
I suddenly remember I am out of my afternoon meds by a half a stupid dose and have to go to CVS. I’ll take my own car and meet them there. It’s practically on the way. Half hour later, Meds finally in hand, I hop into my car and then I start to cry just a little.
I’ve forgotten my abortive meds at home. Afraid to risk not having them, I drive all the way back, doing my mindfulness and breathing, trying not spiral too deeply into frustration about what I am missing and the thousands of tiny compromises and decisions and screw-ups that are part of my life every minute.
Needles and bottles and water in hand, I finally make it to Splashdown, walking madly to where they usually hang out, sure I’ve missed everything or that I shouldn’t have bothered coming because I know they don’t even notice my absence.
I see my husband waving from the top of the big slide, gesturing me to meet them at the bottom. I want to run up to join them, but decide not to risk an even worse headache. This only aggravates me more. I try to let it flow.
So, I wait, and then this sweet, shivering, bluish boy tumbles out of the slide. Foggy goggles. Big half-grown-in front teeth grinning at me. He gives me a cold hug and wisely notes he needs to warm up.
He lays out his towel just so onto a plastic lounge chair and we squeeze onto it. The stress ebbs out of me and it is all worth it- to be holding this boy on this day, just like this.
