Yesterday was Katie's 15th birthday. She had about 6 friends over for dinner and to spend the night. I was busy cooking, and baking all day. We served the girls tremendous amounts of ribs, potato salad, and spinach strawberry salad and cake. The cooking and baking and cleaning up from cooking and baking took the whole day. I loved doing it, but I forgot to do something else, something I always do on my kids birthdays.
At the end of the day, as Steve and I were getting ready for bed, he called Katie out of her room. He enveloped her in a big "Daddy" hug and kissed the top of her head.
"I remember the day you were born, Punkin," he said. "I remember almost every single detail of that day. The day you were born was one of the best days of my life."
That was when I remembered what I forgot. Every year on my kids birthdays I tell them about the day they were born. I grabbed Katie's hands, at 10:00pm right there in our upstairs hallway and began her story.
"The night before you were born, Aunt Nisey and I went to Claim Jumper. We split an I'd'eclair. When we got home I couldn't sleep. I made Aunt Nisey get up with me and play Horse."
"And Aunt Nisey won even thought you cheated," Katie broke in.
"That's right, and when I woke up, very early the next morning I told Daddy my water broke, and he thought I was kidding." I was trying to hurry because I knew she was eager to get back to her girlfriends so they could start their movie marathon. I tried to fast-forward to the important parts.
Each of my children have a birth day story. "I was painting your Nursery" begins Alex's. The day of David's birth came after weeks of false labor, so I was making a sandwich for Alex to take to school in case I was not really in labor. I was with my sweet mother-in-law when I realized I was in labor with Annie. We were at my doctor's office, but instead of going straight to the hospital, I insisted on going home first. I wanted to eat and wait for Steve to get home. I worked on a blanked I was making for my niece while I breathed through contractions.
The kids have heard these stories many times. They could tell the stories as well as I can. Three of them are old enough to roll their eyes at my sentimentality. I continue to tell them though, because I can. Because I am here and I can. They don't understand how important their history is, or maybe they do. Maybe they are just following kid code by acting annoyed. Maybe they secretly love hearing it. Maybe they love hearing the story in which they are the star, the story about the day that, without them, would have been just like any other day. No-one can tell me about the day I was born. My kid's history goes much farther back back than mine does. My history goes back only as far as I can remember. My kids history goes back farther than they can remember, it goes back as far as I can remember. If I keep telling them, about the day they were born, about how much they were wanted, these memories will become their own.
