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A "First" Ya know, life is filled with "firsts".
There are the "biggie firsts", like someone's first haircut, first
steps, first loose tooth, first day of school, first date, first car,
first job and first apartment. And there are lots of "smaller firsts",
like the first time trying sushi, the first time using a new shampoo,
and the first time buying a real suit. Yesterday I experienced another "first" in my life. For the past twenty years, like most Mother's, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed wearing the Title of “Birthday Event Coordinator” for our son. Every year we always had a birthday party for our him. Each year as it neared that time, I’d ask what he wanted on his cake (in the way of decoration) and then I'd sketch it out and transfer his idea to a birthday cake. He LOVED that he could ask for any design and I'd make it. Without fail, after the completion of the cake and the "oooooh's and ahhhh's", he not-so-patiently awaited the 'handing over' of the beater, the bowl, and even the spatula, so he could lick clean every bit of frosting! But the beater especially - was HIS! I always used whatever design he chose for his cake, to create a theme for his party. I’d incorporate that design into his invitations, card, banner, balloons, games, and decorations. Over the years, through the patterns on his birthday cakes, together we'd celebrate the changing and maturing of his life's interests. There were designs like: Care Bears, McGee & Me, Adventures in Odyssey, Army Men, Camouflage, Extreme Biking, Skateboarding, Cars, Computers and even Sponge Bob! And to create these baked-testimonials (these edible milestones of his life), had been one of the greatest pleasures of my life. Yesterday though, as I prepared a cake for our son’s birthday, I experienced a sudden, overwhelming sadness; a disconnection; almost a grief, as I held the beater in my hand. That one object – a beater coated with frosting – whisked me back to the day our son left home. At the age of nineteen, in anger, and for self-gratifying reasons, he suddenly chose to physically live elsewhere. And although he abruptly left home, this house and our hearts continued to be filled with his presence. His cologne lingered in his bedroom. His games were still on our computer. His jackets remained in the closet. His favorite foods were still stocked in our pantry. Our son was gone, but at the same time, he was everywhere and in everything. We waited for him to 'come to himself' and return home. But he didn't. And all of it hurt. It hurt like no other hurt I’d ever experienced. For the “first” time, I knew how deeply a child could hurt a parent. Yesterday, holding that beater – that stupid beater – made me feel that without any warning or emotional preparation, someone just picked me up and slammed me down into some strange and foreign land. I felt lost. I experienced an overwhelming mourning for what used to be, a grief for what could have been, and a sorrow for what I wished would be. Standing there, beater in hand, I felt disconnected, as if I no longer knew my place. I remembered every previous birthday. I was always the one who used to make his birthday special. It's what I did. It was who I was. Now… not wanting to feel as though I might be interfering, and not wanting to make it seem as if I was trying to compete with the new woman in his life, I found that I didn’t know what to do. Should I make a cake at all? Will his wife make him one? Will she decorate it with his choice of design and place a piece of her heart into its creation? Will she plan him a party? Will she make his birthday special? Does he even want a special birthday? Will he come by to see us? Will he want to spend his birthday with us? Should I make his favorite foods and invite him to dinner? Will his wife be upset if I do? What does the parent of an adult child do for birthdays? Tears began to flood my eyes then spill
over to run down my face. I felt a war raging within me and I didn’t
even see the battle coming! I confess to wanting to throw that beater
across the kitchen and run – I didn’t want to feel like this. I didn’t want current events to force me to go through this. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. A child leaving home was supposed to be a good “first”. It was supposed to be a wonderful and celebrated milestone. It wasn’t supposed to be so fractured, and separated, and foreign, and cold. And it wasn’t supposed to hurt. That doggone beater began to feel real heavy in my hand. I don’t know how long I stared, frowning at it through tear-blurred vision. I scowled at it, as if the beater was the enemy. Unrealistically, I wanted to call my son at work and say, "Come over here and lick your beater!" I wanted to throw it, frosting coated and all, into the hot soapy dishwater. I wanted to toss it into the trash! Then somewhere inside, quietly, almost in a whisper, I heard a quote from the movie, “Message in a Bottle”. In that movie, the father of a grieving young man spoke to him, "You choose -- the past or the future. Pick one and stick with it." I believe God used that quote to speak to my heart. Because instantly, the emotional war inside of me subsided. I realized there was absolutely nothing I could do to change the past. It's done. But I can still hold onto hope for a good future. I had to let go. I had to defeat the painful past that surfaced through a lone beater coated with butter-cream frosting. I had to focus on the future and all the many “firsts” it held. So, after wiping my blurred eyes and
wet face with a paper towel, I walked with that beater over to the
table. I sat down in a chair, put my elbows on the table, and I mentally
toasted, “May the past stay in the past. To the future!” I prayed for
God to bless my son, daughter-in-law and grandchild. Then... for the
"first" time, I licked my son's birthday-frosting beater clean. It was a
“first” not a “last”. It was the first of many more beaters I'll be
licking and many more cakes I’ll be making not only for my son, but for
my new daughter-in-law, and for my soon coming grandson.
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