 | |||||||||
| Steve Elders, who wasn't born on Valentine's Day, but on 2/22/58 |
Happy birthday today to Stephen Paul Elders, who showed up a little late for the birthday party I had planned all those years ago.
Birthday Bonanza
“I like very much people telling me about their childhood,
but they’ll have to be quick or else I’ll be telling them about mine.” --Dylan Thomas
We both expected our daughter to be born on Valentine’s Day.
The obstetrician always had pinpointed the due date in mid-February, so we had
no reason not to believe that our little girl would grow up celebrating her
birthday on the most romantic of all holidays.
In 1958, long before ultrasound and amniocentesis, my
husband, Bob, and I had no guaranteed way to determine our child’s sex.
Nonetheless, we blissfully absorbed all the Old Wives’ Tales. At my shower, the
wedding ring suspended over my bump swung back and forth rather than in
circles, a surefire indication, my girlfriends swore, that we could expect a
girl. And because I carried high, Grandma Simmons already had knitted two pairs
of pink booties. So though we didn’t entirely rule out spending future
Saturdays trudging to Little League games, privately we believed we’d be
traipsing instead to ballet recitals and doll exhibitions.
As the big day approached, we settled on a name, Wendy, but
just in case, chose Stephen as a backup.
“When Wendy’s five, she can have her kindergarten friends
over after school for Valentine games and treats,” Bob offered. My eyes lit up,
envisioning heart-shaped balloons and cakes.
Then another picture entered my mind. “Uh, but what if we’re
wrong? What if it’s Stephen? Won’t he be embarrassed about a Valentine’s
birthday?”
Bob and I gawked at each other. In our cozy fantasy land, we
hadn’t even considered that possibility.
He frowned. “Hmmm. Well, at least we’re in Long Beach, California.
We could always celebrate at Marineland or Knott’s Berry Farm.” I sighed. My
heart was set on tea parties, lace doilies and red
By early February my hospital bag was packed and ready to
go, including a paperback copy of Dylan Thomas’ Quite Early One Morning. I’d planned to read those essays and
stories during my three-day stay at St. Mary’s.
On February 14 I lolled in the maple rocking chair near the
front window, waiting for the labor pains to commence. When Bob came home from
work he handed me a pair of cuddly teddies. “One for you and one for Wendy,” he
said.
But by midnight I finally accepted that Wendy wouldn’t be
blowing out her birthday candles on a heart-shaped cake.
The next few days I dragged around the house, curiously
downhearted. I’d slip into the nursery and try to admire how I’d decorated it
with Disney cutouts arranged on pale lemon walls. Now, though, when I stared at
the crib, I no longer could picture my rosy-cheeked little girl grabbing for
the wooly farm animals on the mobile sent by Grandpa Crawford.
Then one midnight, shortly after Bob and I had retired, a
pain cut through my lower back and I knew my time finally had arrived. We
hustled to the hospital where I remained in labor for the next ten hours before
delivering our son, Stephen.
That was the first surprise. The second came when a nurse
carried in my lunch tray. Bob, who was seated by my bed, smiled approvingly at
a slab of cherry pie topped by an American flag.
“Look,” he said, holding it up for my benefit. I eyed the
pie blearily, and then redirected my gaze to the pillow-case-wrapped baby
asleep in my arms.
“You go ahead and eat it, honey,” I said. “I’m not very
hungry.”
“Don’t you get it?” he asked, plucking up a paper napkin and
dangling it in front of my face. It carried a red, white and blue drawing of
George Washington. “Stephen’s going to share his birthday with the father of
our country. A real manly day to celebrate.”
For the next couple of days I dozed, fed the baby, and read
Thomas’ lyrical praises of his childhood in Wales. I gave Grandma’s pink
booties to my hospital roommate who had given birth to a girl, just as she’d
anticipated. When we got home, I tucked the napkin and flag from the lunch tray
into Steve’s baby book.
For the next several years, from Kindergarten to fifth
grade, when Congress passed the Monday Holiday Law which switched George
Washington’s birthday to the third Monday in February, Steve always had his
birthday off from school. And Bob and I always took him and his best buddy,
Kevin, to Disneyland to celebrate. Even after
the holiday was changed, Steve got his trip to Disneyland
on the closest Saturday.
A few years ago, at a memorial service for Bob, I reconnected
with Kevin, Steve’s lucky pal. We stood and chatted a bit about the gang of
kids who grew up together at Circle
Gardens apartments.
“How fortunate that Steve had February 22 for his birthday,”
Kevin remarked. “When we get together these days we reminisce a lot about all
those wonderful trips to Disneyland back in
the ‘60s. We’d liked the old World of Tomorrow and the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party,
and we used to get a kick out of riding the monorail.”
I smiled, charmed that at least two men I know, besides Dylan
Thomas, have childhood memories worth sharing.
Now as his birthday nears once again, I wonder if Steve really
prefers cherry pie to the Valentine-shaped chocolate birthday cakes I’d
conjured up in my pre-natal days. I’ll have to ask him. I know that in honor of
the man who shares his birthdate, I’ll get an honest answer…since he cannot
tell a lie.
As for my mythical daughter, Wendy, she sometimes shows up
in my dreams. In the words of another Dylan, she remains forever young…with
rosy cheeks smeared with chocolate frosting.
Posts
