Have A Birthday

But there has been an even bigger revelation. One that I reached and then couldn't step away from. A doozy.

The price of being alone in one's own head without interruption for too long at one time.

As summer rounded the corner into July, we celebrated Pat's birthday. Pat turned 15 and was quite naturally excited about being on the runway to adulthood. Discussions of working papers and learner's permits and much coveted cars and concert events he'd like to attend filled every meal time, side by side task, snuggle on the couch. It was a turning point in his young life.

And once we had birthday dinners and cake and candles and presents and other nice surprises, my mother reared her ugly little back-combed head. As Pat thrilled at the arrival of his self-designed, customized awesome new skateboard -- a skateboard he and his friends thought was the height of cool, Mom sent her birthday greeting,

As per usual, nothing more personal than a card and a check.  A check I have to put in the bank and withdraw from the ATM for it to be even remotely of value to a 15 yer old.

What ws even more disappointing, and frankly, bordering on a alarming, was her card.

As Pat opened the envelope to reveal the card, he looked quizzically at me. As if he'd opened up the wrong envelope. (A sure sign of maturity. A year or two ago, the card would have gone unnoticed and would have been dropped on the floor once a couple of bills had been discovered. It could have read" With deepest sympathy.")

He turns the card toward me to show me and makes a "WTF?" gesture.

Mom has sent my 15 year old decidedly masculine boy who loves skateboarding and rap music a card that reads, "For Someone Special" and featuring a lovely swirly blue and green and purple motif, embellished with butterflies and sparkles.

And inside there is a totally impersonal check and a note for him to text her and telling him she will text back. Oh, goodie!

As if.

I refrain from screaming. Try to put it in perspective. Just weeks before she'd sent me a check for my birthday (after expressing shock that I'd sent a gift and card for Mothers a Day the week before) and had written the check to my married name. I had not been Liza Royal for 6 years. Six very notable years.

And then when I didn't cash it right away - How could I? - she sent me a nasty text telling me to hurry up. She wanted to close the account.

Pat didn't ultimately give a hang. And he sure as shit didn't text her. The impersonal, can't-bother-to-make-it-even-seem-sincere, offhandedly, box-checking gesture rolled off of his back. And mine, too, but more slowly.

But I did not forget it, and as we passed Independence Day and I turned my attention to Hil's birthday, I realized a new brand of horror.

In a matter of days, Hil would be exactly the age I was when my mother peeled out of the driveway and out of our lives. Leaving skid marks, natch.