Mom on the Run
“OK,” I announced weeks ago. Months ago. “I’m going to do you all a favor.” My husband and daughter, seated in the family room, tilted their heads toward me. “I’m going to tell you what I want for my birthday.”
Ah, that got their attention. My husband sat up straighter, fully raised his face from his laptop screen, looked at me intently. My daughter swiveled her head and shoulders my way, detaching herself wholly from the TV show. After the Big Birthday Post-It Note Debacle a few years back, my family has tried to remember my birthday and act appropriately. No, I don’t “need” gifts and festivities, but caring recognition is absolutely required, and that has (ahem) been made clear.
Of course nobody knows what to get me. Ever. I think I’m easy to buy for, and my sizes are printed clearly on the inside of all my clothes and shoes. Earrings are always a good guess. I like to eat out, lunch and dinner. One year my kids bought me a gift certificate for a manicure and pedicure which I enjoyed very much and used up … I’m OK with them giving me that again every year. But despite all that, my family struggles. Every time. And since this year I know exactly what I want, I decided to just go the easy way and tell everyone up front.
So into the living room I went. The appropriate persons were present – the husband, who should be giving the gift, and the daughter, who realistically would be the person to purchase it.
“I want a double-strand cultured pearl bracelet,” I told my daughter. I flicked my eyes at my husband – got it? Just checking, honey – then back at my daughter, who had to do the actual listening.
“Double strand?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Single strand is too narrow. Triple strand is OK if they’re small pearls, but I want it to be about this size.” I held out my left wrist, used my right hand to pantomime about a half-inch wide. “I’m sure you can find one at a good price online. This is plenty of time.” My daughter and I nodded at each other, message sent and received, expectations confirmed on both sides, and I started to move away into the kitchen. I had work to do.
Except: “Wait, what kind of pearls?” I stopped. My husband was trying, bless his heart. He – ha! – actually pulled over a piece of paper, and had a pen in his hand, cocked and ready to write.
“Dad, I’ve got it.”
“Cultured pearls,” I told him over our daughter’s head. I decided to let him think I think he would have something to do with it.
“Two rows? On one bracelet?”
Oh, it was so cute. “Two strands. Yes. To be about this wide.” Again I held out my wrist, measured it out with my hand. “But she’s got it,” I said, nodding towards our daughter. On cue, she caught her father’s eye and nodded too. Still, he wrote it down, jotted a note, and I couldn’t help but smile. Awww. Trying so hard.
A week later, out of the blue, my husband asked again: “A pearl bracelet, right? Two rows?” Again, I pretended he would be the one actually buying it: “Yes. Two rows of round white pearls.” I was touched, pleased and impressed that he remembered, and was trying.
And now here it is, my birthday. There’s a gift on the table. It’s small, definitely the size of a jewelry box. I tear the paper, open the box, and – success! – ooh and aah over my new pearl bracelet. I grin at my husband and thank him profusely, then turn and share a smaller smile with my daughter. She nods her head slightly: again, message sent and received. Finally.
