Copyright
THE BIRTHDAY Copyright © 2011 by AshleyBarron
All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,including information storage and retrieval systems, withoutpermission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who mayquote brief passages in a review.
Smashwords Edition: November 2011
Follow Ashley onTwitter: @dcPriya
Read Ashley’s blog:blog.thepriyas.com
The Birthday
“Do you love me?”
I sweep narrowed eyes over my young son. Mymind churns with suspicion. Is it report card time? No. Did I hearglass breaking in last few minutes? No. Is that absurd reality showon tonight—the one he insists he’s old enough to watch? No.Maybe.
I’m not sure.
I’m standing in the doorway of our somewhatuntidy, recently remodeled kitchen. The front of my hair is wrappedin Velcro curlers, and I’m doing my best to conceal a quick glanceat the oven clock.
Time is not my friend.
With a hidden sigh, I glue both eyes to myson’s face and soften the expression on my own. “I love you withall my heart.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “If you love me, thenhow come you won’t let me get that new video game?”
Ah, the reveal.
“The matter is settled,” I assure him.“You’re too young for it.”
“Mom!” My name becomes one long, pleadingwail. His knees are slightly bent, his hands clasped tightlytogether, his eyebrows raised in that sweetest of sweet ways. I’lladmit there have been a number of occasions when the tactic hasproven fruitful.
It’s no wonder he continues to employ it.
I ignore his whining, choosing instead tostudy the cotton pajamas he’s wearing. They’re covered in hisfavorite cartoon character, faded at the elbows and knees, andstained just about everywhere in between. The fraying edges of thepant bottoms expose mismatched socks that aren’t in any bettercondition.
How does he do that so fast? Grows taller bythe second, and still he manages to demolish his clothes with timeto spare.
My daughter, on the other hand, hasn’t had astain on her clothes since she grew old enough to consciously avoiddirt.
“Won’t work, sonny boy,” I say, lightly, as Istep to the kitchen island, reach across it, and tug my day plannerto me. With a few strokes of the pen, shopping for new pajamasheadlines tomorrow’s list of errands. “Won’t work.”
“Well, I know you love me.” Mydaughter steps out from behind her brother and tosses her hair fromone side to the other. It’s still damp from her bath.
I study her face, so similar to my own.Unlike me, she was born with confidence to spare. My husband and Ioften marvel at her outspoken, self-assured ways. At least, whenwe’re not picturing her as an independent-minded sixteen-year-oldwith a driver’s license.
So far that image eclipses fire, naturaldisaster, job loss, and my husband’s mother moving in as top on ourlist of greatest fears for the future.
“Quit following me around,” I hear my sonwhisper to his little sister. “I was here first.”
And by first, what he means is that timebegan at the moment of his birth. Maybe it did.
His words make me smile, mostly because, asthe youngest of my siblings, I can’t relate to them. Back when Iwas born, the general response was “Oh, look, another one.”
I learned how to run before I could crawl,and how to bargain before I could speak full sentences. Not even mysenior year prom dress could escape the reality of hand-me-downs ina big family.
I was raised with love, but not independence.I was raised with wholesome food, but a limited menu.
Perhaps that is why I’ve been so devoted tofinding ways to empower my children, and to show them as much ofthe world as my husband and I can pull into their lives.
I want them to have options, always.
The noise from my son’s pleading pulls meback to the present. I look at my daughter, still standingexpectantly in front of me.
“You’re right. I do love you.” I can’t resisttugging gently on her hair before turning to my son. “And that iswhy, after this performance, you can add another month to the waittime for that video game.”
He falls dramatically to the floor,punctuating the drop with heavy groans of displeasure.
I laugh.
There will always be laughter in ourhome. Despite the ribbing we took from our family and friends,my husband and I added those exact words to our wedding vows. Atthe time, we’d had no idea how complicated it would be to honorsuch a simple statement; we were young, in love, and everything waspossible.
At least, that’s what we tell ourselves.
There have certainly been periods when we’veworried, both individually and as a couple, that laughter had leftthe sturdy walls and bright green lawn that anchor our space inthis world.
Too often, it’s simpler to light the fuse ofanger—somehow always within reach—than to commit the energy andhard work it takes to pull smiles and laughter out of hiding at theend of a long day.
After our vows were said the challenges hadbegun almost immediately, pushing and straining against our utopianideals of marriage, and the future. Being madly in love with oneanother hadn’t seemed to count for as much as we thought it would,surprisingly. We hadn’t been prepared for just how quickly twopeople become overwhelmed once the ink on the mortgage dries andthe pressure of merging two extended families sweeps through,uninvited.
At the precise moment my husband and Ibelieved we’d finally achieved balance between our respectivefamilies, we conceived a child.
That one act turned our own parents intounruly children.
Suddenly, every minute of our lives, everymorsel of our love, had to be equally divided between the twofamilies. Competition would spring up in the oddest, mostinconvenient and annoying places. I didn’t need the stress, notwhen my body was changing
