Forgotten Birthday Wishes
By Gloria Shenoy
My dad calls me every Tuesday evening. The calls are short, but they’re a chance for me to learn what he is up to and where he is, since Mom can’t tell me. It’s also an opportunity for my kids to say hi to a grandpa who is often far away. This particular call happens to be the day before my birthday. I’m not surprised, but I am disappointed when we hang up.
“He forgot again,” I say to my husband.
He gives me a look of understanding and a frown. Ever since my mom passed, my dad has not acknowledged my birthday. At first I blamed the grief, and then I assumed he just didn’t care. It stings when my birthday comes and goes, although the sting gets less each year.
The next morning I see a short email from my dad. “Happy Birthday!” I’m shocked. I quickly walk down the hallway and show the message to my husband. He looks at the phone and then up at me with a mixed look of happiness and guilt.
“What did you do?” I ask and keep pressing as he deflects and dodges.
Finally he admits, “I may have sent a reminder text. Come on, he has no one to remind him.”
I feel my chest tightening and pressure rising up in me. I’m at the brink of tears. This reaction catches me off guard. Why am I so upset by my dad’s birthday wishes and my husband’s text? Why does this sting so much? It’s my birthday and my daughters dance around my legs, excited to celebrate, so I take a deep breath in and out and swallow and push down all these big feelings.
***
My sister-in-law is into card making. She has stamps, papers, punches, fancy stickers and a bunch of other tools and fun things. Her cards are 3D and have interesting folds. My mom and I always loved making cards when visiting her. At some point, my sister-in-law got a new desktop cutting machine, which meant she no longer needed the punches. She gave them all to my mom, who couldn’t wait to bring them to a women’s group at church. The ladies dedicated one morning of their Bible study meeting to making cards for baby showers, birthdays, and all kinds of occasions.
One year Mom made me a card decorated with butterflies punched from newspaper advertisements. She thought the colors would make beautiful shapes, but what she hadn’t noticed were the words on the advertisements. The butterflies that fluttered across my card showcased a collection of trinkets on sale from the local stationary store, and an advertisement for free shipping from an online Christian bookstore. I wonder if her eyes skimmed over such things because English was her second language. The cards she made were not only unique and homely, but also well-meaning and filled with love.
I did not appreciate them while she was alive, but find myself rereading them now that I won’t be getting them from her anymore.
***
My children’s birthdays are deeply part of me. I know the day of the week they were born and can easily recall their labor stories. With my firstborn, I labored all weekend. I checked into the hospital on Saturday, got kicked out on Sunday because I was not progressing, and then finally went back on Monday when my daughter arrived—on her due date, now her birthday—perfectly on time. With my second, having learned my lesson, I labored over the weekend and continued to labor on Monday at my desk at work before she was born early Tuesday morning.
Since I remember my kids’ birthdays, I would expect my parents to remember mine.
***
I once heard someone say if you don’t know your emotions, your Creator does, so take it to Him. The afternoon of my birthday, while swimming, I asked God: why did I react that way when I got my dad’s text and realized it was my husband who had reminded him? And as God often answers in ways I would never expect, I hear a small voice: you didn’t know his birthday.
The thing I love about swimming laps is you cannot get lost, but there is a beautiful space to think and process. (Plus, no one can tell if you’re crying.) My arms do their automatic rotations and I turn to breathe in a steady rhythm.
This truth—that I never knew if my dad’s birthday was the 28th or 29th until I was an adult—jostles me. My dad’s birthday was one of those dates, and my grandmother’s birthday was the other. Since she lived with us, as a family, we celebrated both birthdays together. The celebration dinners were rarely on their actual birthdays, but always the closest weekend, so if I just had my card ready, I could bring it.
Breathe in and out. Turn, another length of the pool. The pot calling the kettle black. How could I be upset at my dad for not remembering my birthday when for so many years I did not technically know his?
When I first moved to this city, we lived in an apartment. One time, my parents were visiting and I asked them if they needed me to remind them what my apartment number was. My dad laughed and said, “No, that’s easy! It’s my birthday.” And from that apartment on, I knew his birthday was the 28th, not the 29th.
This small reminder that it took me until my late twenties to remember my dad’s actual birth date filled my heart with grace. My husband is right—my dad does not have someone to remind him when my birthday is. I am still important to him, even if he forgets to wish me a happy birthday.
In the end, my forgotten birthday is a mix of my own grief (of not getting a homemade card from my mom) and reinterpreting what it means to care. It’s realizing that birthdays mean different things to different people. Hopefully I will have more grace when my next birthday rolls around and I don’t get a call from my dad, or maybe I do, because my better half realizes what it means to me.
Either way, I'll make a card for my dad and be sure it arrives by the 28th.
Guest essay written by Gloria Shenoy. Gloria is a Jesus follower, wife, mother of two, and works full time at a university. She loves thinking while doing laps in a pool, helping people figure out if and how learning can be measured, and looking for great deals.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.