IMPERSONATING MAGICAL BEINGS: BIRTHDAY FAIRY
I had the perfect storm of self imposed irrational parent/Mommy standards for birthdays: the girls’ Dad was often away travelling during the early years; limited personal experience to draw upon; and grandparents who were far away both physically, and in terms of having-a-clue.
As far as I can tell, I only had one birthday party as a kid. If there wasn’t photographic evidence, I would have said that the handful of birthday memories I have were false impressions created to ward off nascent self pity. I have a clear memory of a marbled (vanilla/chocolate) money cake with quarters wrapped in wax paper (because money is pretty much the dirtiest thing on the planet), and someone (me?) being upset because their piece didn’t have a quarter in it. This memory is so 1970s that it could only be attributed to one of my early birthdays. I also have a vague notion of being given a Barbie one year, which could only have come from a peer, because I wasn’t allowed to have any dolls or Barbies. I guess my mom fancied herself a feminist? The anti-Barbie campaign was futile in any case because my friend J across the street had all the Barbie-phanalia, including the camper van, which rocked WAY more than a feminist mom. To be fair, what I don’t have is any memory of feeling left out or ill done by. I am not partial to being the centre of attention and birthdays make me uncomfortable. But that could be due to lack of conditioning?
In any case, the end result is that I didn’t know what was expected of me as birthday event planner. But I am a creative person and a problem solver, so I initiated my own unique birthday traditions: enter the “Birthday Fairy”. The Birthday Fairy would leave a special gift on the end of the birthday girl’s bed so that they woke up to a special surprise. This would often be the diabolical item that I fervently wished they hadn’t specifically asked for: Polly Pockets with exchangeable rubbery clothing (“Mommy, can you put this (infinitesimally small) shoe on Polly for me?”), the creepy, heavy breathing cat that did nothing but sleep, or my favourite “Firby”, a rock hard mechanical stuffy that resembled an evil Gremlin. [1]
The Birthday Fairy was joined in the Present Parade at the foot of the bed by: A gift in-absentia from M who had a 90% chance of being away on any weekday birthday; “Sisters” gifts which were perpetuated from the sister gift given to/from the new interloper (C) when she was born; a gift from Gramma and Grampa which they typically picked out, but was easier for me to purchase than for them to ship; a gift from Nana and Papa, which I would play interference on the original concept (inevitably an educational (aka boring) item meant for a child twice the target age). This meant that besides planning the birthday party, making the cake (no small effort, see: "learning to cook”), I also had to pick out, buy, wrap and secret onto the bed in the dead of night 6 special, special birthday gifts.
This all came to a head on S’s 4th birthday when she did some fast math on the gift tally and tearily asked “why didn’t YOU give me a gift, Mommy?” She wasn’t being greedy. She was legitimately confused. But, in my early morning delirium, I interpreted it as a questioning of my affection for her. Now, I know I said I was creative and a problem solver, but this was 6:30am, and I am non functional until at least 8am. So what did I do? Did I out myself as the gift-buyer-supreme Birthday Fairy? No. I sad-mad cried. Not my best moment, but find me a mother who hasn’t been there.
Fortunately, the gig was almost up on the Birthday Fairy. The brainchild of leaving the gifts at the end of the bed, created a tooth fairy meets Santa Claus double whammy: I had to stay up late to sneak the gifts into position, while simultaneously needing to be up and smiley-faced at the crack of dawn when the gifts were discovered. It was unsustainable for someone with my terrible sleep patterns. I got “caught” (ie. made a ton of tissue paper crinkling noise on purpose) ferrying/fairying in the gifts. Probably on the first occasion after the birthday breakdown fiasco.
What can I say? Life's a journey.
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[1] You could, in theory, talk to the Firby and ask it to tell you a joke or a story. S, however, inexplicably had a Brooklyn accent as a child, and Firby could never understand her. This resulted in her angrily yelling at Firby multiple times a day “FUUH-BAY!!! Tell me a TOW-WHEE!!”, to no effect. It was HilarWithUs.