In which long-loved birthday traditions are adjusted to fit the current circumstances

My family had a couple of cherished birthday traditions. But they can't be carried out in their original formats, as my parents and grandmother have died, I was brought up as an only child, and my son is away at school, leaving me with no actual relatives nearby. When faced with the choice of sailing down a river of tears or adapting the traditions to reflect present circumstances, I decided there was no future in spotlighting the sadness. My inner Darwinian opted for adaptation rather than extinction.

The first tradition is that you give your mother a small gift on your birthday, to thank her for all she endured on your behalf. I can no longer do that, and it kind of hurts. I've searched my heart and my contacts list, and on Monday I will present a small gift, with my thanks, to someone I consider sort of a mother-ish hero to me. The details will remain private--my little attempt to keep my motivation pure--to make sure I'm operating out of love and gratitude, rather than a quest for attagirls and head-pats. 

The next tradition may sound silly, but was always important to us. On the night before someone's birthday, that person's mother tells the story of "having the baby." (I grew up with my grandmother in my parents' home--she got there before I did--so we had mothers galore.) The first birthday that I was motherless, my best friend Mary asked why I was a bit melancholy. I told her this would be the first birthday without my mother telling the story of my birth, so she kindly asked that I recount it to her. (Mary's a wizard of sensitivity that way; everybody should luck into a friend like that.)

There's nothing special about the story, really, but it's warm and it's happy and it's mine--just a wild goose chase on Daddy's part for a banana split for his "Sunshine," who craved one with the same fervor she'd craved artificial maple flavoring for the preceding nine months. But by the time he had bribed someone into making the Jack Gillen Overkill Version (six scoops of ice cream, three bananas, five toppings, partridge in a pear tree, etc.) and returned to the hospital, Mother's craving had evaporated and she . . . uhhhhhh . . . was unable to properly appreciate his efforts, resulting in his Harris tweed jacket needing some urgent dry-cleaning attention. But until her dying day, Mother smiled when she remembered Daddy running all over hell's half-acre to find her a banana split in the middle of the night.

The other big laugh was three days of "did I have a boy or a girl?" because she was heavily medicated after my birth and couldn't remember. Finally, she got it straight and remembered I was a redheaded baby girl with dimples. When she was dying, she seemed to "see" her babies--all of us, but of course mostly me, as I was the only one who lived more than a week. The last thing she actually SAID to me (in recognizable language) was "you're my baby--you're my BABY!!!" over and over again, stroking my face and seeming a bit surprised.

A new shopping center was being built near where they lived when she was expecting me. She and Neenie (my grandmother) waited anxiously for it to open; it was going to be the newest big deal--gad, they wouldn't have to drive all the way to Lakewood to further their quest to remain on the "gatherer" side of the hunter-gather continuum. Lakewood is only 15 miles from where they lived, but there was no freeway route then, and oh! to have a proper shopping center  was such stuff as dreams were made of. Sure enough, Orange County Plaza, proud home of J.C. Penney's, Grant's, Woolworth's, Thrifty, a Copper Penny restaurant, and a Helen Grace ice cream store, held its grand opening on the exact day of my birth. Poor IdaMae was in the hospital having a baby and she missed the whole thing. She never let me forget it.

Enter Jack, her eternal rescuer. When he picked us up at the hospital three days later, he'd done a little shopping of his own and had a lovely gift for his Sunshine--a  mint-green 1959 Ford Fairlane station wagon. Mother was so happy to be rid of the Studebaker that had ferried her from Pennsylvania.  (Mother always swore that Ford, and my long, thick hair, saved my life. She and I were rear-ended on July 3, 1963. I was standing over the center console in the back seat, straddling "the hump." The drunk who hit us was traveling way too fast and the impact smashed the ENTIRE rear window, sending glass shards all the way through the car. My hair was full of glass, but I didn't have a scratch on me. I hardly remember the actual accident; my most vivid memory is of IdaMae being strapped to the ambulance gurney, snarling about the siren "Will you TURN THAT DAMNED THING OFF?")

The final chapter of my birth story involved the selection--and last-minute switch--of my name. Because Mother wanted me to have the same initials as Daddy, the original plan was to name me Judith Louise Gillen. But about three days before I was born, Mother met a horrid, bitchy, nasty, vicious harpy named Judith. She came home and announced to Daddy that if they had a girl, under no circumstances would she be named Judith. I'm sure he responded with his always-placid "Whatever you want, Sunshine. Just do whatever's fair, just and reasonable." So she landed on Jill and compounded the clunkiness by weighing it down with Linette. At least I've managed to shed the Linette, Jill is horrible--short, thudlike, too easy to "swallow," and the ugliest name imaginable. To this day, I loathe "i" and "l" and I yearn continually for syllables I cannot have.

I'll have a happy birthday--I've never had any other kind. There are gaps--loved ones missing--and there is silence where there once was an off-key soprano croaking out That Song. But there will be joy of a different sort, peace of a new variety, and, with any luck, a little hell to be raised with dear friends.