Birthday Magic

(My son will be 19 tomorrow. This is an edited repost of a blog I wrote a year ago when his 18th birthday fell on Easter.)


My son is 18 today.

Today he will see what the bunny put into his Easter basket and accompany us to church. (he has already expressed sparkly-eyed resentment about spending “his” day in Jesus’ shadow) He will then eat a typical holiday feast at Grandma and Grandpa’s, (prime rib, mashed potatoes, corn pudding, cranberry-pineapple salad, grandma’s sweet-thyme carrots, green beans, and rolls; with lemon bars and cheesecake for dessert.) He will open birthday gifts, spend some time with distant relatives via phone…then he will register for Selective Service.

And I will watch the evening news and shudder.

I’m sure there has never been a time or place in history when parents were completely at peace with the politics and politicians that might govern their children’s destiny. But I am so uncomfortable with the leadership this country is under now that sometimes it’s all I can do not to google real estate prices and teaching jobs in oh, say, Canada. Or Switzerland.

Don’t get me wrong here. I love this country. Passionately. And I support the brave men and women who serve her. I was a Marine Corps wife; I believe with my whole heart in the principles of the foundation of these United States. I have often marveled in wonder at the likelihood of those minds, those leaders, those Framers all being in that one tiny corner of the globe at the exact right moment in history to build a government of the people, by the people, and FOR the people.

If Paul Revere had galloped by on his stallion in the middle of the night last night and called for volunteers? I would -with a heavy but willing heart- have sewn that last wooden button on my son’s homespun Minuteman jacket and laid it out next to his father’s.

That, I understand. And other eras in our military history as well. But this? Must I sit by idly and watch as my only begotten son adds his name- that name so carefully considered by me eighteen years ago for meter, implication, and strength- to a roster of potential sacrifice? In the name of what?

The irony of this critical juncture falling on Easter is not lost on me.

The night before Snooze turned four, I was overcome with the significance of that age. No longer really a toddler, his increasing sense of humor and independence was compounding daily; he was growing too fast. I held him and snuggled him and told him I needed to hold on to my three-year old. I asked him if he would consider staying three; if it would be okay to just forget about his birthday. “No, Mom,” he giggled. “Tomorrow is my birthday. We’re having cake and presents. I’m going to be four.”

“I know!” I cried, “I’ll make a potion! Come with me! Maybe if you drink it, you’ll stay three!”
We went to the kitchen.

“Mommy, that’s just Sprite and orange juice. It won’t keep my birthday away.” He drank it down. “Yum.”

Every birthday-eve since, I have concocted a “potion” (now with sibling help) to try to slow the passage of time. Although it never works and despite many recipes,(no two years or potions are ever the same) if I should happen to forget to brew one, the birthday-to-be always reminds me. “Don’t I need a potion?” they ask. Both my children understand I want to hold them forever in my heart, exactly the way they are. They love and look forward to this tradition.

The “eighteen potion” was a passionate red. Hot, bitter, sweet, and vitamin-packed.

Oddly reminiscent of adulthood itself.