Yep, that’s right. Every single year. Two birthdays
Well not exactly. Like everything else associated with the Sheridan Street circus this particular family story has been embellished and stretched for so long, that the origin is lost to history and all we are left with is legend.
Mom says I was born on March 3. Dad, March 2. No, I was not born at midnight. I was born around 8:00 am. I know. Mom has my baby bracelet. DOB: March 3. Dad has my birth certificate: March 2. Legally, Dad wins.
However, Dad, not the most involved of fathers, really doesn’t have much credibility when it comes to matters of the sisters. He called all of us Charlie! Some days I’m not even sure he would be able to pick all the sisters from a line-up.
Dad would wish my happy birthday on the 2nd.
Mom would wish me happy birthday on the 3rd. Parties and presents accompanied Mom’s version of my birthday so I tended to like hers better.
I never really paid much attention to it. It was just what it was. But as I started to grow up, it bothered me for a time. Seriously parents. I know baby birthin had lost its wonder by the time I arrived being number 4 and all but is it too much to ask you to drum up a little enthusiasm and record the actual date. I’m already the baby. The youngest of 4. (Yeah that didn’t last very long!) You think I need more issues to deal with. Honestly!
Anyway, for a period in late-grammar school, it embarrassed me.
When I moved out, every year I’d get the call.
March 2.
Dad: “Happy Birthday Blondie!” Pleasantries and small talk exchanged, he’d hand the phone over to Mom. Mom: “Hi Honey!” Pleasantries and small talk exchanged and we’d ring off.
March 3.
Mom: “Happy Birthday Honey!” Pleasantries and small talk exchanged, she’d hand the phone over to Dad. Dad: “Hey Blondie!” Pleasantries and small talk exchanged and we’d ring off.
Every year. Except one.
March 2, 1991
Mom: “Happy Birthday Honey!” I don’t remember what I said to her. I just remember crying. My heart breaking all over again. We had just buried Dad the morning prior on March 1st.
Years later Mom told me she hesitated calling me. She didn’t know how I would react. She just couldn’t bear the thought of losing one more thing that year. I understand that more, now that I’m a parent. Then, it was a raw and painful reminder of just how different our world had become.
Dad’s been gone 20 years this February 26th . (Happy Birthday, Pammy!) I thought I’d be ready to tell that story this year. I’m not. I’m not sure I’ll do it, us, or him justice. Maybe I’ll just keep doling out the funny. Small bites since they seem to hurt less.
I miss you Dad. Every.Single.Day.
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