By Sonya Spillmann
@sonyaspillmann

“What do you want for breakfast?” I ask. I have a pen and paper ready because I cannot, for the life of me, remember anything these days. 

“Palačinke,” my son replies, though he doesn’t say it like my mother used to: pul-uh-chin-khay. He says it like I do, Americanized, Pal-a-chin-ka. It’s a Balkan version of crepes, thin as paper, and I grew up eating them for breakfasts on holidays or Saturday mornings when my dad could spare to wake up early and stand at the stove for consecutive hours.  

“And lunch?” I ask. Followed by, “Dinner?” and “Dessert?”

My son’s birthday is coming up, the fourth family birthday we’ve celebrated since we stopped going anywhere back in March. Under normal circumstances, I’m probably the lamest birthday mom ever. Low-key is an overstatement. I don’t plan parties, but rather welcome a friend or two over to hang out and watch a movie, play in the backyard, or—for the summer birthdays—meet us at the pool. It’s usually planned a day or two in advance and depending on the time and venue, I offer snacks, popsicles, or s’mores. Then it’s done. I should have been a mom in the 70s.

My son gives me his menu and I think, well at least I can do this for him. 

***  

School. 

Church. 

Sports.

The summer at the pool.

The vacation at the beach.

Seeing their cousins. Grandparents. 

And now, the holidays.    

What else will this year take away from us? 

What else will I feel like I need to make up for?  

***

“How do you understand love?” I ask my kids at dinner.

“What do you mean?” they reply.  

“I mean, do you like it when I cuddle with you … or do you feel more loved if I would give you a gift?” I realize this is a hard concept to grab onto, especially when you’re a kid, especially when your mom pops it after dinner, when all you want to do is get to dessert. “Would you rather that we do something together—or for me to give you compliments?” The kids shrug. No one gives a straight answer. My younger son, the one whose birthday it will be soon, starts to giggle, as if embarrassed by the questions.

I realize I’m not being fair. 

Because what I’m really asking them, what I can’t stop thinking about, what I’m desperate to get an answer to, is: How—given my limited capacity during so much change this year—can I care for each of you best? 

How, given all I perceive as loss, can I make sure you know you are loved?

When the kids were young, the language of love was simple: Provision, protection, attachment, affection. But as they’ve gotten older, as they’re becoming their own people with their own personalities and needs, I want to speak, to act, to offer my love in a way that their hearts will understand. 

My son, though nearly eight, climbs into my lap—as he’s done almost every night after dinner since he’s been out of the highchair. I adjust, wrap my arms around him and give a little squeeze. I take a long slow deep breath with my cheek against his shoulder.  

***

In silence, in the dark quiet hours of the night, I tape ribbons of blue streamers (his favorite color) from his doorframe. I hang more in the dining area and some around his school picture in the hall. I tie eight helium balloons to his chair at the table. 

I lay out the ingredients that I’ll use tomorrow morning when I stand in front of the stove for two hours making enough palačinke to feed the hungry birthday boy and the rest of my family. 

At least I can give him this. 

*** 

I watch for brown edges before I flip, that’s what my dad taught me. I’ve already been here for over an hour, my feet hurt, and the bowl of batter is only half gone. The pile of palačinke grows slowly, slowly, slowly into something substantial. It is tedious, worthwhile work. I lean against the counter and text my neighbor-friend, our pandemic “buddy family,” and invite her boys over to celebrate Asher’s birthday tonight. 

***

After the movie, homemade pizzas and a mom-made ice cream cake, the neighbor boys go home. Our family of six sits around the table while Asher opens his gifts, the last one a plush blue robe. (You get a robe, you get a robe! Everyone in this family gets a robe for their birthday this year!) Besides LEGOs, this was at the top of his list. He rips open the packaging and holds it up beaming. 

It is possible our children do want extra hugs, extra encouragement, and extra intentional conversations this year. Maybe, despite so much time together, they still need us to really see them, really hear them. 

But it’s also possible, in fact it’s most likely, that despite all the upheaval and change and disappointments we parents carry on our shoulders this year, our children never once questioned being loved.

Why would they? It’s a language that transcends circumstance. A dialect we’ve whispered over them their entire lives. 

Asher runs towards his room to strip down and don the gift. He reaches the hallway then doubles back to us with a hand on the wall for balance. He stands on one leg leaning forward and shouts, “This is the best birthday ever!” 

We all laugh at his excitement and I shake my head. Could it really be that simple?

One family’s language of love: fuzzy loungewear, birthday streamers, and recipes passed down through generations. 

Photo by Lottie Caiella.