89. A Special Birthday
Lots of presents. That was the first indication that the 8th birthday of Hadley Elizabeth O’Brien was going to be different. The usual course of things at the OB household is that the Birthday Girl gets two gifts from each giver: a big gift and a little thing-a-ma-bob-trinket. The big gift could be something fun: a toy, a craft set, a scooter, a game, or a building set like Lego Village. That particular set has 2,435 microscopic pieces, each of which could easily send a 6’2” man airborne onto the bovine placenta if perchance a random piece found its way to the floor and then into his foot at 2 AM when he was downstairs escorting his wife to the bathroom (could happen, did happen a few weeks ago). The person who gave the lethal Lego as the big gift, might have given something like a Squishmallow keychain as the thing-a-ma-bob-trinket. That little something-something couldn’t possibly inflict any type of injury except perhaps the squishafying of a heart or two because the damned things are so adorable.
Second option. The big gift could be sentimental: something along the lines of a keepsake book that holds pictures of the girl who gathers hearts simply because she exists. And if that was the big gift, then the thing-a-ma-bob-trinket might be a container of disgusting slime that every 8 year-old-kid finds fascinating though it’s nothing more than a neon-colored booger. Just sayin.
Hadley enjoys slime. She likes to squish it through her fingers, but she finds her real enjoyment in asking, begging, cajoling, and guilting me into touching it.
“I HATE SLIME,” I always say.
She squishes it so it makes that disgusting noise.
“Jaysus! Stop doing that,” I always plead.
She laughs and squishes it so it doubles and triples up on the wet farting sound.
My voice raises an octave or two as I call out to the child’s mother, “Hannah. Hadley is torturing me with slime. Make her go away.”
The mother laughs, then with absolutely no authoritative insistence in her voice, she says, “Hadley, don’t bother your grandmother.” That non-committal BS leaves only one way to make the pestering stop — I give in.
It’s always the same old thing, the ensuing touch-reaction by me, “Ewww, that’s just awful, get that crap away from me.”
Which is always followed by a guffaw and a, “You said, ‘crap’ MammyGrams.”
Not sure how the booger tangent became part of this blog,
but I’m glad it’s over.
Getting back to the birthday story — when the collection of gifts (16 of them) were assembled in the living room at 183, it looked like Christmas, sans the red, green, gold, and silver themed wrapping paper.
Why all the gifts you may be asking? Simple answer. If our worst fears had been realized, I would have died before Hadley turned eight, so a few extra gifts for the child wouldn’t hurt.
RIGHT?
Right, but there was much more to this story. There was an overriding and an underlying thought process by Yours Truly. From the time of her birth, every present Tim and I ever gave Our Girl has had a hanging tag that read: Love, MammyGrams and Gee. This year there were gifts I wanted to give, or leave, for Hadley that were strictly from me; you know, final gifts, sentimental gifts. Since I was going out on my own in the gift giving department, it paved the way for Tim to give gifts of his own, a sort of setting the stage for future celebrations. Hannah and Jessica upped their usual gift giving quota for reasons of their own; the ending result was a whopping pile of beautifully wrapped presents set in front of the fireplace. For a ‘Christmas’ ambience, we put the flame part of the fireplace on for a few seconds. Hadley got the reference the minute she took the room by storm. “It looks like Christmas, MammyGrams.” Then her wide-eyed realization, “All of them are mine? WOW.”
My special moment with the love of my life.
I asked her to come stand near me. I handed the wrapped treasure chest of birthday cards and said, “This is a special birthday, Hads, because—”
“You won’t be here when I turn nine.”
A bit of a sucker punch. “Yes. That’s why I wanted to give you something special. Why don’t you sit on Momma’s lap and open this gift and I’ll explain what’s inside.” She plopped onto Hannah, pulled the pretty blue and white swirl paper away and smiled wide at the beautiful, carved keepsake box.
“This is so pretty. Thank you.”
“Look underneath.”
“There’s a key!” She squealed in Hannah’s ear, pulled the tape away and put the key into the lock. Click. She peeked inside, saw the first envelope with the number 8 on it and asked, “Is this a birthday card from you?”
“Yes.”
She fingered through the others and looked at me for an explanation.
“Those are birthday cards for each year until you turn 30. MammyGrams wrote a special message inside each one.”
She looked back and forth between me and Hannah; the box still perched on her lap. “That’s so sweet, MammyGrams.”
A collective sigh from the adults was heard.
“Can I open the card?
I nodded.
She turned the envelope over and saw a round seal with a funny picture on it, the same picture she’d soon find on the inside card. “Mommy, I want to keep the seal, so will you help me … okay, let’s stick it on the front of the envelope.” Task done, time to read the card. On the front there were three cartoon kittens holding a bouquet of birthday balloons and on the inside I wrote a simple message: You’re 8 so celebrate!
A grateful response, “Thank you, MammyGrams,” and then came a gentle hug around my neck, and a long kiss to my cheek. All was wonderful in the Birthday Girl’s life — and in mine, too.
And. Then. This. Happened.
Backstory: For Christmas I gave each of my girls a beginners book about gemstones. The book’s blurb:
Find comfort, balance, and emotional healing with crystals. Discover how crystals and healing stones can help you fight stress, cope with anxiety, and more with this beginner’s guide. Harmonize and heal your body, spirit, and mind with Crystals for Beginners. (Karen Frazier, Author).
With the book I gave Hannah and Jessica a starter kit of gemstones, just a sampling of pretty pink, blue and green, polished smooth stones. I figured it might give them something to do as they moved into and through their grief. I also gave Hadley one or two stones that were originally intended for my girls. Why? Because the little treasure trove of special gemstones I’d ordered for Hadley didn’t arrive in time for Christmas. When it came in January, I asked Tim to wrap it in birthday paper and put it in the basement, thus the beginning of the birthday stash.
The initial gift of gemstones set Hannah and Hadley on a path of having an interest in, to having an obsession with the beautiful stones. They have added to their collection and amassed quite the array of agates and jaspers and whatever else. They have studied the names of each stone and what type of energy they hold.
A few weeks ago, I mentioned to Hannah that I’d purchased a really beautiful, specially boxed set of gemstones specific to Hadley’s zodiac sign and I was going to give it to her for her birthday, “So if you’re giving her stones, don’t give them during the morning party. I’d sort of like my set to be a big deal.”
“Okay.”
After Hadley opened her birthday bounty, I asked her to sit on the loveseat. Hannah handed her the beautifully wrapped box while I explained it was a very special gift from MammyGrams.
And. Then. This. Happened.
Hadley slipped the tulle bow off with ease, tore the paper away with vigor, and read the box. “Cancer.” Eight-year-old eyes of disbelief and terror shot my way, “YOU GAVE ME CANCER!”
Suddenly, three sets of really confused / rather pissed off adult eyes were upon me. Hannah spat something along the lines of, “What the eff?” The last word was mouth-whispered though Hadley heard enough that she turned to her mother and said, “I heard that, you know.”
Hannah ignored the almost-swearing thing and jumped into the explaining thing. ”There’s something called the zodiac and there are signs in the zodiac that explains how a person’s birth date and time of birth means many things about a person’s life, and your birthday just happens to fall into the zodiac sign of Cancer, it has nothing to do with MammyGrams’ illness, what it means is that you are a water sign and the crab is the symbol of that water sign, and that sort of explains why you love the water.” She stopped to pull life-sustaining air, that’s when reinforcements jumped in.
“And I’m a Pisces and I love the water, too,” Jessie added gleefully.
“And me, too,” Tim joined in.
“And Mommy’s sign is the ram,” I tried playing along.
“And your grandmother’s sign is an—”
Sure the ending of that sentence was going to be ASS, I cut her off. “My sign is the sea goat.”
Hannah warmed a bit then laughed a little which brought the tension way down.
Tim left the room saying something about someone always making a scene. I hate it when he says that. He’s not wrong, but I hate it just the same.
I was very upset.
Jessie mouthed from across the room, “It’s okay, Mom.”
Hannah and Hadley got onto important things and quickly put the event behind them by looking through the box.
Luckily for me, there was a gemstone in that collection
that had the energy to fix a major fuck up!
“Hads, can you come here, and bring your box?” I needed to emotionally reconnect with My Girl. I took a printed card from inside, on it there was a picture of each stone, and an explanation of what the stone is and what it means in the world of gemology.
Hadley didn’t need the card, she rattled off the names of the stones with ease. “This is Blue Sodalite, and this is Tiger’s Eye, one of my favorites, MammyGrams, and this is Amethyst, Gee’s birthstone, and this is Rose Quartz, another favorite, and Blue Agate, I really like agate stones, and this is Red Jasper, it’s pretty, but my favorite jasper is Dalmatian, and this last one is a Selenite Stick.”
And just like that, we were back on track. My Girl was no worse for wear and she didn’t mention the Cancer box again. I’m rather sure the fucker ended up in this week’s trash — the stones ended up in individual black velvet pouches.
Round Two of party day was being hosted by my sister and my mother at 1 Inwood. A couple of years ago, Marchrie bought one of those really awesome inflatable swim centers with a slide, and a couple of pool areas, and spritizing and sprinkling centers for kids to get spritzed and sprinkled upon. It’s a fantastic water playground, but it is a bitch to lay out and inflate, so Tim and Hannah went over early that morning, got the thing in the upright position, set up a couple of shade tents for the adults to sweat their asses under, and arranged tables and chairs for people who are no longer able to slip-slide-away.
For this year’s festivities, Hadley chose RAINBOWS as her theme. Shortly before 1 PM everyone headed to the party; Hadley in an adorable shift dress of rainbow colors. The two big highlights of the party were an 8-shaped, rainbow-colored piñata, and cloud cupcakes. Hadley insisted that the cupcakes be, “All white, even the frosting, with no sprinkles or anything. That way when we put the plastic rainbows on top, the cupcakes will look like clouds with rainbows in them.” She was absolutely right, and she said so when she thanked her Auntie M who splurged on the tasty ‘cloud’ treats for the special day.
I stayed home with my babysitter, the Irish One who gained a new moniker by the end of the day, Jabbering Jenny. We were kept in the party loop with countless picture and video texts from the adult attendees who sent an array of the same ‘thing’ but from different angles. It made me feel included, so that was wonderful.
As for we, the two who’d been left behind, our conversations lacked a jovial quality, then took a bizarre circuitous route: first up, a review of my funeral arrangements; always a good idea to have another set of eyes and ears (and mouth) in on planned events of such significance. Funeral chit-chat ended up being the light and airy conversation that day. Go figure!
The room turned serious when she asked, “So if something should happen while I’m here, what do I do, who do I call?”
“Oh, right, a really good question,” I blurted. “If I have a heart attack or a stroke, or something that resembles that, there is a sheet of paper on the refrigerator with the hospice phone number. You call it and they will advise you, most likely to get the Comfort Kit. They will talk you through giving me medication and then you’d wait for a hospice person to come. If I broke a bone and I wasn’t bleeding, you’d follow the same procedure; if I was bleeding out, you’d call 9-1-1 first then hospice. If the paramedics arrived before hospice, you’d explain that I’m a hospice patient. They’ll give me emergency care, and most likely bring me to the hospital to patch me up, then send me home.”
“Where’s the Comfort Kit?” She asked, looking as though she needed a nip of morphine.
.
Dead silence.
I thought I knew, but I immediately went blank. “Shit. I don’t know. I need to know.” I started having heart palpitations. I called Tim, “This is an informational phone call only, so don’t freak out. Where is the Comfort Kit?” There was a groan, of course there was a groan. He gave v.e.r.y. s.p.e.c.i.f.i.c. information. Now, should any of you draw the short straw in the babysitting lottery, I’ll be able to direct you to the Comfort Kit.
And. Then. This. Happened.
I told Jennifer the story about the unintentional scarring of my granddaughter with the box of Cancer gemstones. Hearing about the experience and living it elicited two totally different responses. The somber replay of the event somehow set us toward fits of laughter — that just wouldn’t stop.
Right into the rabbit hole we went with side-splitting guffaws. I added on by telling a slew of things that happened when my OBs were young. Right out of the gate, I told about the time:
“Hannah and Jessica were having breakfast in the kitchen and I was washing dishes or whatever and Katie and Matt of the Today Show started discussing the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal. I knew there’d be things said that I didn’t want the kids to hear, so I threw myself toward the television and found myself starring in one of those slow-motion scenes where the person is saying, Noooooooo in that protracted, death-pitch tone. And before I could turn off the tube, the words Oral Sex were uttered. Without missing a beat my six-year-old Jessica said, ‘What’s oral sex?’ I pushed her bowl of Cocoa Puffs toward her and replied, ‘That’s when people talk about it, here, eat.’”
My grown daughters tease me whenever the opportunity arises — I happen to think it was a bit of spontaneous genius. Just sayin.
After that round of giggles, I told her about Bernadette, Hadley’s Elf on the Shelf who took a tumble from her spy-station one morning a couple of years ago. I’d read the book of rules and regulations that came with the shelfed elf, but I freely admit I wasn’t entirely sure about this ‘fact’ — the Elf isn’t supposed to touch the ground — ever! And if such fate befalls an Elf, he/she would lose the ability to fly to the North Pole each night to ratfink on little kids who were in the final days of trying to get onto or stay on the Good Girl/Boy List. I’m not entirely sure about any of that, by the way.
Back to the story, Bernadette got knocked by Piper’s tail and landed supine on the ground. Hadley was hurled into a fit of hysteria before anyone could utter a, “Ho, Ho, Ho.”
Not to worry!
MammyGrams swooped Bernadette from the floor, shoved her into Hadley’s hands and said, “You need to spin three times, find due North, hold her high and say, Merry Christmas, and just like that she’ll get her powers back.”
From over my shoulder, Hannah was asking — in that tone of hers — “Do we have a compass? And where the hell is due North!”
I said, “The sun comes up over the McTigues house, so that must be east.” Spin-spin-spin goes Hadley. I stop her facing due North, maybe (?) and tell her to say Merry Christmas.”
I must have been right, because Bernadette was hiding somewhere new the next morning.
Grandmothers are full of magic, too!
As for Hadley’s 8th birthday, it ended with a full-night sleepover at MammyGrams and this question,
“MammyGrams, what happens when I turn 31?”
Oh how I wish I knew!
And now, Letter #2, it came on steno paper and it read:
Sheryll,
First off I want to thank you for doing your blog, you have helped so many people. Even though I am very close to Kathy Gaffney, I never had the pleasure of meeting you. I will never look at the ocean again without thinking about you, and soak up this wonderful experience. If anyone ever told me I would write to an author I would say never. LOL. But I so wanted to give back a small token to you of what you have given to so many of us. I will continue to pray for you and your family. But most important, Thank You! xoxo, Patti Magner.