It's Late, I Can't Sleep Because of a Pounding Headache, and I Hope I Have the Cajones to Leave This Post Published

There has always been a wee little problem with my birthday being so near Valentine's Day, but most people who cared a whit about me could figure out a way to get it handled.  At a store to buy a birthday card, they'd pick up a Valentine's one, too.   I would know that they were glad I was born, and that they loved me.

This year's birthday was nice, though, looking at it from a distance, a 52-year-old woman spending her birthday with her son's friends is a little peculiar.  And maybe sad.  

Then came Valentine's Day.  Do you know what I got?  Not a card, not a note, not a flower, not a candy, not a balloon --- NOTHING.  It was never even mentioned.  I sent cards, but got nothing in return.   And I am deeply hurt by it.

I've let a lot of occasions go in the last 20+ years, trying to smile through the "ooops"es and the "we spent our money on things for ourselves and anyone else but you"s.  But I am officially sick of it now.  How much planning and sneaking around and staying up late to make decorations and/or presents do you think I've done over the years?  How soon do you think I began thinking about the next big occasion in your life? (HINT: As soon as the present one was over.)  How many places have I taken you?  How many out-of-the-way errands have I run because it was "really important, Mom"?  How many times have I waited in the car for you to be "right back"?  How many hours has that thoughtlessness added up to?  How many times have I been bored somewhere, but took it because you were having fun?  I thought I was giving you examples of generosity and sacrifice, but apparently I was only being a damn doormat.

Does it ever even out between children and parents?  I sort of doubt it.  And I realize I'm being a selfish, whiney brat about this whole thing.  But when your own children --- the only people you have left in the world --- don't even take the time on Valentine's to just write "I love you" on a piece of notebook paper, for crying out loud, it's too much.


  1. I hope you leave this up as well. As a crappy kid myself, the one thing that I've come to realize that I love the most about my Dad was how very very much I could take him for granted.

    And now I can't. And I don't. And it's too damn late.

    Happy Belated (of course!) Birthday, K.


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