My daughters' birthdays are happy occasions for all the obvious reasons; I love the family gatherings, the photos, decorated cupcakes and a mound of Disney-themed toys secured in industrial strength plastic wires. They always leave me a little sad too, though, because they remind me that I was not there for the most important birthday, the one where they were actually born. I can't tell them the story of that special day when they entered the world, because I know so little about it myself.
I had an especially hard time when my oldest, The Butterfly, turned five. I dreaded it. I had a sinking feeling that she was in for a rough year and there was nothing I could do about it. I felt like I needed to warn her or protect her somehow. Fortunately for my own sanity and perhaps hers, I had a moment of insight sitting in the bathtub the night before her birthday. I realized that my sadness and dread had nothing to do with the year ahead of her, and everything to do with the fact that the year I turned five happened to have been a pretty shitty year for my family. My parents divorced, we moved to a crappy little shack in a northern Minnesota town that makes Minneapolis look balmy and tropical, and we had a freak accident at home that landed me in the hospital for a month. Once past that psychological hurdle, I was able to get up the next morning and enjoy her special day, December snowstorm and all, knowing that my suffering had been very specific, and would certainly not be her fate.
Then again, this summer, I had a similar feeling when my youngest turned five. She was so excited about this birthday, so proud to be big enough for kindergarten in the fall, ready to leave baby stuff behind, strutting around tying her own shoes and swimming the front crawl like a little pro. I had conquered my feelings of "oh no your life is about to change forever" angst.... so why was I feeling all sad and ominous again?
You know how the first year in particular, and really the first several years are so pivotal, so crucially important as a parent because of all the ways your precious baby is growing and developing? The prenatal vitamins, nutrition, car safety, nurturing, touch, bonding, immunization, hearing Mommy's voice, hearing Daddy's voice, learning to trust, learning your native tongue... all forming the foundation of your child's development for years to come. They're the don't fuck this up years, am I right?
So when my children hit their fifth birthdays healthy and developing normally I should have been thrilled, high-fiving my pediatrician, and trying not to gloat in front of the other parents. Sure, nutrition and care safety and early reading skills and social skills and role modeling and not choking on pennies is all still super important. But we're past age five. We've made it this far. I should be ecstatic. Phew! Yay responsible parenthood! Right? So what's my big issue? Why the angst over turning 5?
Here's why. When was your earliest memory? Do you have a glimpse of an event from when you were three, maybe a fleeting vision of an afternoon at a park when you were four? Maybe a birthday gift, a smell or a name is in there, all fuzzy and nostalgic? But by the time you get to five you have actual, real memories. Your kindergarten teacher's name. The color of your bedroom, and how it bugged you that your younger sister got to stay up as late as you. The name of the kid you used to walk to school with (back in the day when the way you ensured a five year old was safe walking to school was to pair him up with a big mature first grader). You also remember your parents. You remember your dad's goofy sideburns and your mom's frosted hair, threats to TURN THIS CAR AROUND and watching Mary Tyler Moore and not getting why your parents thought it was so funny.
When the girls were babies my mistakes may have had awful potential consequences, but at least they weren't remembered. I could plop an eighteen month old in front of the TV and feel a little guilty for not doing something more stimulating, but she doesn't remember that now. Now it's for reals. Now they're remembering stuff. I try very hard to create special memories for them. We make pancakes on Sundays, sing together in the car, and of course we took tons of pictures and gave lots of hugs and "I'm so proud of you" 's on the first day of school. But I also yell. I have stood next to my car shouting "letsgoletsgoletsgo!!!" at the top of my lungs. I have walked out of stores with two little girls in tears because I would not let them have gum. And I have been boring. Responsible, structured, organized... boring. I do not make up songs to make picking up toys more fun. We do not have pajama days where we eat dessert first and make crazy art projects out of noodles. I do a lot of laundry and we take baths and go to swimming lessons and pick up toys.
And this is why their turning five is so scary for me. It's because all my actions are now going down on my permanent record. They're old enough to remember me. Not fleeting, fuzzy, iffy glimpses. Actual memories complete with what I wore, where we were, what I said, and how they felt. They'll remember disappoinments, humiliation, anger, and the routine and boredom that comes with having a mom who is, sadly, not Mary Poppins. I don't even worry about traumatic memories. I'm not worried that they'll end up in therapy trying to recover from neglect, violence, or true trauma. And I think if I do it for enough years in a row they'll remember homemade challah on Rosh Hashanah, driving them to monthly gatherings with our Ethiopian friends, and all the other little traditions. But I picture them getting together in college and saying "remember how mom used to freak out if one of us couldn't find our shoes, and she'd go on and on about that's why we should always put our shoes away?" I fear the little home videos forming in their minds right now will be terribly unflattering.
And there's no going back. They are forming memories as you read this. Years from now, when people ask them about their childhoods, their stories will start around the time they turned five, and could include any given day; any boring, routine, crabby, irratioal day.
Scary.
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