Updated: Jan. 5, 2016
Originally Published: Sep. 28, 2012
When my father was just a few months younger than I am now, he devised a plan to throw my mother a surprise birthday celebration. She was turning thirty—a milestone that, despite her nonchalant attitude toward birthdays, carries significant weight. It marks the end of a certain era of youth and identity, and my father, who took these matters to heart, aimed to create a memorable occasion.
He poured his heart into the party, inviting a multitude of friends who were eager to celebrate my mother—someone who would never think to organize such an event for herself. Lacking expertise in party planning, he entrusted most of the food preparations to others, but he did take it upon himself to order a dozen cheesecakes from a local bakery in various flavors, knowing how much my mother adored them. The plan was for their friends to contribute dishes potluck-style, while the children played with my sisters and me, ensuring my mother would have a phenomenal thirtieth birthday.
Unfortunately, as fate would have it, a nasty flu outbreak swept through Pittsburgh that spring. On the day of the party, after collecting the cheesecakes, my father began receiving calls—nearly all the guests had fallen ill and couldn’t attend. He ended up canceling the celebration, and he and my mom spent her thirtieth birthday quietly, stashing away as much cheesecake as possible in the freezer and feasting on it for weeks.
At that time, I was blissfully unaware of these events. At three years old, my memories of my mother’s thirtieth birthday consist of seeing my parents smiling, receiving My Little Ponies, and noticing that our house was exceptionally neat.
Now, as I approach my own thirtieth birthday, I find myself reflecting on my parents’ experiences. I understand why my father, at my age, felt a strong desire to make that day special for her. I can empathize with my mother, who, at my age and with three children of her own, would go out to buy presents for her birthday. I grasp how powerless my father must have felt, wanting to make one day all about her, and I realize how meaningful that effort must have been for my mother.
In the realm of motherhood, when your days are consumed by caring for your children, your own identity often fades into the background. You only become the focus when something goes wrong—when illness strikes, or tragedy occurs. The alternative is to make things about you, which can quickly drain the joy from any occasion. The best way to ensure happiness is often to prioritize your children’s joy, which is why my memories of my mother’s birthday are filled with images of a purple stuffed pony bouncing on our dining room table.
As I near thirty, I envision my father at that age, perhaps a little heavier, wearing faded jeans and quirky t-shirts, with his beaming smile, deep dimples, and bright eyes. I can picture him vividly, as clearly as I can see him now. Yet, the image of him back then feels like a distant relative, a stranger. I can piece him together from my memories, which are not just snapshots but vibrant impressions of who he was.
My mother, however, eludes my grasp. I can recall photographs of her, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot visualize her as she was when she turned thirty. I remember her hands expertly rolling cookie dough and placing it on baking sheets, her elegant fingers adorned with a simple ring. I can see her silhouette as she walks ahead of me, handing me money for the ice cream truck, but her face remains a mystery. She is an invisible force—an ever-present source of love, structure, and support.
In my early years, I studied my father, intrigued by his presence and the enigmatic concept of “work” that took him away from home. I never had to look for my mother; she was always there, a comforting constant. If I called, she would appear. If I misbehaved, she would step in. In moments of fear or sadness, I could run to her, and her gentle hands would soothe me as her voice echoed through the fabric of my existence.
At thirty, my mother was a figure of reassurance, yet invisible to me. Now, I find myself embodying her role. Like my father, I place great importance on birthdays, though I’m unsure why. It feels trivial, yet it resonates deeply within me. I empathize with the twenty-nine-year-old father of three, and I believe I understand my mother’s experience. However, she will always remain a mystery to me. No matter the parallels in our lives or our shared struggles, I will never fully comprehend her thirty-year-old self as I do my father’s.
This realization creates a connection with every mother—every woman who has played a shadowy role in her children’s lives. I feel a profound sense of grief knowing that, like my mother, I too may fade from my children’s memories, replaced by an ever-evolving image of myself.
If I think of my mother, I envision her as she is today—familiar, with lines etched on her face and glasses perched on her nose. Yet, I mourn the loss of knowing her as the vibrant young woman she once was. This grief is compounded by the guilt and joy of motherhood. I have always aspired to be an eternal, nurturing presence, absorbed into the very essence of love for my children.
I have always wanted to be a mom.
For further insights on home insemination, visit this excellent resource. If you’re interested in more information on fertility solutions, check out this post. For additional tips on parenting, see this authority on potty training.
Summary:
As I approach my thirtieth birthday, I reflect on my parents’ experiences, especially my father’s efforts to celebrate my mother’s milestone. I recognize the invisible yet profound role my mother played in my life, which has shaped my understanding of motherhood. This poignant exploration reveals the bittersweet nature of parental love, identity, and the inevitable fading of one’s presence in their children’s memories.