Hot Tamales, Fishbowls, and Chocolate Chip Cookies
Or the tastes and celebrations of birthdays past and present
I’m 5 years old at my birthday party at Kid’s Clubhouse— 1996’s PREMIERE birthday party destination in the DFW Metroplex. Friends and family alike come to rock climb, cosplay as doctors and grocers, and make their way up the giant treehouse in the center of the room. When it’s time for cake and presents, I take the seat of honor in an actual throne and when my grandparents gift me a box of Reese’s Puffs cereal AND a Samantha American Girl Doll, I feel like an actual princess. I am weeks away from entering kindergarten and armed with the “it” toy and cereal of the 90’s, I can conquer anything.
I’m 15 and I hear the footsteps of my friends creep down the hall before they burst through my bedroom door and yell “surprise!” My best friend has made me mix CD with the songs of our summer, Sugar We’re Goin’ Down, When You Say Nothing At All, and Suds In The Bucket all making their appearance (we were an eclectic bunch. Still are.), and gives me more hot tamales than I can stomach. I won’t be able to so much as look at them for years to come because I’ll make myself sick trying. We load up in someone’s car (for the life of me I cannot remember whose since none of could drive) and head to iHOP. We eat pancakes and drink chocolate milk until the wee hours of the morning. I question my place in so many areas of life, but I know with these girls, I’ll always find belonging.
I’m 21 entering my senior year of college, living in a house with a group of friends for the first time, finally free from dorm and sorority house life. Three of us have summer birthdays and after months apart, we are finally celebrating our legality all together with a night on the town. We will lovingly refer to this night as the “night of the fishbowl”, as it starts with us splitting a fishbowl sized margarita at Fuzzy’s and events get a little fuzzy from there. Our stomachs and heads hate us the next morning, but the girlhood of it all, the innocence of feeling like we were on the precipice of the rest of our lives, made the hangover well worth it.
I’m 26 and working a job I hate. Growing up with an early August birthday has left me unaccustomed to having obligations on this day. I begrudgingly show up to the rehab department of the skilled nursing facility where I work to find my desk covered with cards from coworkers I barely know. Later in the day, throughout the course of conversation with my office mate, my love for chocolate chip cookies comes up. She informs me I’m not a true cc aficionado or Houstonian until I’ve tried the chocolate chip cookies from Tiny Boxwoods and recruits the aide of one of the long term care patients to pick some up while she’s out getting lunch. My palate is never the same. In a new city where I have few friends, I start to wonder for the first time if maybe I really can call Houston home.
I’m 33 and I haven’t even had coffee before I hear my toddler scream my name from her bathroom. When I approach to gauge the severity of the situation, the scene unfolding before me confirms the scream was indeed warranted. I do my best to triage the clean up of her and the bathroom while reminding myself I am less than an hour away from a spa day. The massage, facial, pedicure, and manicure are relaxing, but it will take more than a spa day to melt away the stress of the previous year. My husband cooks my favorite meal of salmon, Brussels sprouts, and sour dough with Boursin and brings me a Chandon spritz while I attempt to plunk out a few words in a bubble bath. My daughter senses me hiding out and joins me in the bathroom, pretending to be my mommy by rubbing the bubbles from said bath into the skin of my arm. Relaxation may be short lived, but I know my presence matters.
Birthdays are funny. I have lots of feelings about mine, feelings which I have tried and failed to convey in a sensical way. Unable to do so and unwilling to spend the rest of the night trying, suffice it to say I expected this exercise to produce all my best and worst birthday memories but was pleasantly surprised at how many “normal” ones emerged from my mind with these common denominators: birthdays can be special at any phase of life, no matter where I am, as long as one person cares and as long as my favorite food or drinks are present. Some years celebrations look like a big party, some years they look like finding beauty in the every day, but every year, I’m thankful for another year with the people and tastes I love. Thank you to everyone who has made this day special over the last 33 years.