About Time: The Birthday Memory That’ll Stay With Me Always
Project 365, Day 33
I have to be honest. Today wasn’t great for me, physically. I struggled. I cried, frustrated that the progress it felt like I was making decided to take a vacation today. I don’t want to stay in this space too long, because tomorrow is a new day, with hope of feeling better. Pain and discomfort don’t get to win.
All last week, I was looking forward to writing today. You see, tomorrow (today, for you) is my birthday. And I’ve been thinking for days about what to write. Going back and forth between ideas, knowing I wanted it to be something good. I may not be able to take the time I mentally want to before my body kicks me to the curb, but I’m sure going to try. (P.S. how I miss that body in that lead photo. That snapshot is from my birthday last year. When my body felt like my own. When you could still blow candles out on a cake, surrounded by friends. What a time.)
First, I thought, maybe I’d write something for every year of my life. 30-something nuggets of wisdom. 30-something things I wish I could tell my younger self. Nope. My mind is stuck on writing about this birthday memory I unearthed on the same drive on New Year’s Day when I decided to embark on Project 365. I’m not sure what made me think of it that day, but I recounted it to Charles, making a mental note that I wanted to write it down.
I can’t remember the exact year, but I was likely around 7 or 8. I know this because I can vividly see my bedroom. When I was 7, I got permission from my mother to redecorate. My first time ever having a hand in the design. I went with an English rose garden theme, complete with rose-themed bed-in-a-bag I picked out from the Montgomery Ward (remember those?) catalog. I can see the subtle hint of pink on my walls thanks in part to the soft pre-morning glow that would come through my window. My bedroom was at the front of the house I grew up in, up on the second floor above the two young oak trees in our front yard. The ivy and rose border along the ceiling line was hand-painted by my mom. I wasn’t tall enough to reach, but I was the official brush, paint and stencil passer.
So, yeah, let’s call it 8. It was a school day, so I didn’t have the luxury of sleeping in that morning. I recall being stirred awake by my mom, a duty typically left for my dad who worked from home. My mom was an elementary school teacher, and usually left even earlier than we did, but there she was that morning, kneeling by my bedside. My day bed. I can still feel how cold the white-painted iron would feel against my skin on chilly mornings. In the summers, when that Florida heat crept through the windows and walls, that frigid metal was my relief, but in the winter, I avoided the scrollwork and brass caps in the corners like I did the tire swing in the playground after lunch.
Back to my mom. She never, EVER, let a birthday go by without some fanfare. This year included. My memory tells me it wasn’t the easiest of financial times for my parents. My dad was in sales, so it was either boom or bust for us, and my 8th birthday was the latter. Awaking, I noticed a small gift in my mom’s hands. It was long and slender, wrapped in paper I can’t remember, but I do know there was a bow. Maybe red? Before she handed me the box, she wanted to tell me something. Times were a little hard right then, she said. And she and my dad knew how much I loved art. (I was a big coloring book kid, was always doodling somewhere, scribbling hearts and butterflies on the sidewalk with chalk, cooking up an art project with my craft-loving mother.) All they could do this year was give me a simple set of crayons.
Even as an 8 year old, I recognized the pain in her eyes. It hurt her that they couldn’t do more. I LOVED gifts. Most kids do, of course, but in my head, I was particularly fond of them. I waited all year to rip open things on Christmas, my birthday. I knew that whatever was underneath that paper, the crayon set as she said, I needed to show her how happy I was to receive it. It was my mission that morning to make her see that it was enough, because it was.
I love crayons, mommy, I said. I can’t wait to make something with these when I get home, I said, holding the biggest smile on my face I could muster at dawn. Open it, she said. And I did. And underneath was indeed a set of crayons, or so it appeared at first glance. She had tricked me! It was, in fact, a watch, in a case that looked very much like a tin of Crayola, except, of course, Crayola crayons came in a box, not a tin! I can still see that little metal box and that watch so clearly in my mind. The casing and body were clear plastic with markings made to look like each strap was a crayon. The numbers on the face looked to be written in a rainbow of crayons, the hands shaped like, what else? Crayons. Another thing about me? I adored accessories. As a little girl, I’m talking 5 years old, I wore rings on every one of my fingers, a bow in my hair and a handbag (empty) tucked under my arm. Let me remind you of who little Arlyn was, in case you need a visual:
Yup, her. She regularly wore a watch on each wrist, capped off by a slap bracelet or two. While I would have loved the crayons, of course, the site of the watch made me giddy with delight. Maybe because I wasn’t expecting it. I immediately strapped it across my wrist and jumped at my mom arms wide open. She was SO happy she could make me that happy. And I was. I wore that watch until the clear straps practically turned brown from wear and it ceased operation. (I hunted down a photo of a similar one in a different color for a visual.) In fact, I wouldn’t be too surprised if it was still lurking somewhere in a box of my belongings where my parents store all the things they can’t bear to part with.
That watch meant so much to me. It was far more than a time teller, a fun, cool accessory. To me, even so young, I knew it was a sacrifice my parents made to bring me joy on my birthday. They likely scrimped to put together the money for it, all the while trying to keep their family of six afloat during hard times.
I wore that watch with such pride and honor and gratitude. To anyone looking at my wrist, they saw a minute hand and an hour hand, some fun color. But to me, it was my parents’ love that I carried with me physically every day. I’m not sure any birthday gift since has meant that much to me. There was just something about that morning, that birthday, that has stayed with me. I have no idea what happened the rest of the day, but the soft glow of that February dawn, the whisper of my mom’s voice, the feeling in my little heart, those will be with me always.
See you tomorrow, friends.