I was born-you are welcome
Yesterday was my birthday. Now I am 31.
But I think I have layers. Like a cake. Or an onion if you are of the ogre persuasion. I prefer cake. Chocolate cake, and vanilla custard filling.
So, now the top layer is 31. The layer of frosting. Buttercream. My buttercream layer is the mother of four children, and is getting fine lines around her eyes, and unfortunate cellulite on her thighs. She is learning how to be a writer, a photographer, and has lately given up cooking.
Underneath are all the layers of every other age I've ever been. The 25 year old chocolate layer and graduate student and mother of 2, the 22 year old first time mom, the 20 year old custard layer who is struggling heart-broken, starving college student, the 18 year old kid who can't wait to leave the house, the 14 year old freshman high-school basket-baller, the 12 year old with the broken wrist doing algebra with my left hand, the 10 year old in love with Gilbert Blythe, the 8 year old obsessed with my kittens, the 6 year old training for my first track and field by running around my house, the 4 year old playing barbies with my baby brother, the 2 year old with the bad attitude, and the baby who still just wants my mom.
I haven't forgotten it. It is all there, making up the layers of me. And who I am now is a layer of what I am becoming.
When I am 60, I hope I am the coolest Grandma ever. I want to make quilts for my grand-babies. Lovely quilts they carry around and can't be without. I will have those little darlings over to my house and we will go kayaking on the nearby lake. When we come back to my house, we will eat cucumbers on our sandwiches and the frozen grapes from my freezer. We will paint the sunset at night with watercolors. We will bake chocolate chip cookies together, and I will tell them about my 31st birthday.
"Here is a picture of when I was 31 years old." I will show them a picture of me.
"You were so young, and beautiful." They will say to me while looking at the picture, and touching my face. It will be edited, so it will look very flawless and lovely. That's what some fancy program will buy you. Memories better than reality.
"Yes, I was. But I didn't even appreciate it. I was very busy with my young family." I will wish that I had taken the time to appreciate it more, but I will be generous to my young self. I was, after all, very busy and trying my best.
"Was that my mom?" My grandchild will ask, pointing a picture of a blond little toddler.
"Yes, your mother Kaylee was a two year old and she screamed at me every day." I will pause and remember it. It will be funny by now. I will add, "We were trying to potty train her and I would give her two peanut M&Ms when she went on the potty."
"She still likes peanut M&Ms." Her child will say with a smile, thinking of a grown mother sitting on a little toilet for prizes and screaming at me.
"Who doesn't." I will say. Thinking how potty training didn't seem funny at all at the time, but now it really was funny.
"What did you do on your birthday?" My grandchild will ask.
"I only wanted one thing for my birthday. My birthday was on a Sunday, so that meant we didn't go to the store or a restaurant. We went to church. The bishop of my ward would give the primary children a ride on his bishop chair in his office for their birthday. They could have slow and soft, or wild and crazy. And he would sing them Happy Birthday in a choice of languages: German, Russian, pig-latin, or English. All I wanted was a ride on that chair."
"Did you get a ride?" my grandchild will already be laughing, because that is a hilarious thing to do for a birthday.
"I did get a ride."
I held on to the armrests really tight while I was spun and pushed all over the bishop's office. I chose to be sung to in German. But it isn't really German. It is Happy Birthday just how we sing it, but with a German accent, so it sounds a lot like the Terminator is singing you happy birthday.
My differing layers had different reactions to this ride. The 25 year old thought I was childish, the 17 year old was embarrassed for me, the 13 year old wouldn't be caught dead doing something so silly, the 10 year old secretly loved it but didn't want anyone to know, but the 7 year old had the time of her life,"WEEEEEE," she squealed with joy.
Pure joy.
But I think I have layers. Like a cake. Or an onion if you are of the ogre persuasion. I prefer cake. Chocolate cake, and vanilla custard filling.
So, now the top layer is 31. The layer of frosting. Buttercream. My buttercream layer is the mother of four children, and is getting fine lines around her eyes, and unfortunate cellulite on her thighs. She is learning how to be a writer, a photographer, and has lately given up cooking.
Underneath are all the layers of every other age I've ever been. The 25 year old chocolate layer and graduate student and mother of 2, the 22 year old first time mom, the 20 year old custard layer who is struggling heart-broken, starving college student, the 18 year old kid who can't wait to leave the house, the 14 year old freshman high-school basket-baller, the 12 year old with the broken wrist doing algebra with my left hand, the 10 year old in love with Gilbert Blythe, the 8 year old obsessed with my kittens, the 6 year old training for my first track and field by running around my house, the 4 year old playing barbies with my baby brother, the 2 year old with the bad attitude, and the baby who still just wants my mom.
I haven't forgotten it. It is all there, making up the layers of me. And who I am now is a layer of what I am becoming.
When I am 60, I hope I am the coolest Grandma ever. I want to make quilts for my grand-babies. Lovely quilts they carry around and can't be without. I will have those little darlings over to my house and we will go kayaking on the nearby lake. When we come back to my house, we will eat cucumbers on our sandwiches and the frozen grapes from my freezer. We will paint the sunset at night with watercolors. We will bake chocolate chip cookies together, and I will tell them about my 31st birthday.
"Here is a picture of when I was 31 years old." I will show them a picture of me.
 |
| It probably won't be this one. But, you get the idea. |
"You were so young, and beautiful." They will say to me while looking at the picture, and touching my face. It will be edited, so it will look very flawless and lovely. That's what some fancy program will buy you. Memories better than reality.
"Yes, I was. But I didn't even appreciate it. I was very busy with my young family." I will wish that I had taken the time to appreciate it more, but I will be generous to my young self. I was, after all, very busy and trying my best.
"Was that my mom?" My grandchild will ask, pointing a picture of a blond little toddler.
 |
| This is the two year old today. |
"She still likes peanut M&Ms." Her child will say with a smile, thinking of a grown mother sitting on a little toilet for prizes and screaming at me.
"Who doesn't." I will say. Thinking how potty training didn't seem funny at all at the time, but now it really was funny.
"What did you do on your birthday?" My grandchild will ask.
"I only wanted one thing for my birthday. My birthday was on a Sunday, so that meant we didn't go to the store or a restaurant. We went to church. The bishop of my ward would give the primary children a ride on his bishop chair in his office for their birthday. They could have slow and soft, or wild and crazy. And he would sing them Happy Birthday in a choice of languages: German, Russian, pig-latin, or English. All I wanted was a ride on that chair."
"Did you get a ride?" my grandchild will already be laughing, because that is a hilarious thing to do for a birthday.
"I did get a ride."
I held on to the armrests really tight while I was spun and pushed all over the bishop's office. I chose to be sung to in German. But it isn't really German. It is Happy Birthday just how we sing it, but with a German accent, so it sounds a lot like the Terminator is singing you happy birthday.
My differing layers had different reactions to this ride. The 25 year old thought I was childish, the 17 year old was embarrassed for me, the 13 year old wouldn't be caught dead doing something so silly, the 10 year old secretly loved it but didn't want anyone to know, but the 7 year old had the time of her life,"WEEEEEE," she squealed with joy.
Pure joy.
.jpg)
I am still in love with Gilbert Blythe
ReplyDeleteBecause you have good taste, that's why.
DeleteGreat thoughts Evelyn. You are a great writer. I really enjoyed it.
ReplyDeleteThank you. And you are welcome :)
Delete