Bursting the birthday bubble

She's twenty-two. It's not like I can tuck confetti into her lunch pail or trigger a bubble machine to go off in her locker anymore. As your children get older, the magic of birthdays threatens to fade a bit. Most accept this phenomena as inevitable evidence of adulthood. But not Sydney Lynn. Each year, she prepares to ride her celebratory sled down the snow-hill of dreams and wishes. The past few years though, she's toppled off her toboggan to be dragged painfully through the icy, yellow snow of reality.

Chronic car trouble was the theme of this year's birthday; eating up Sydney's Christmas AND birthday as her father and I gift-wrapped a new transmission. Grateful though she was, Sydney couldn't quite put that sled away. The night before turning twenty-two, as she lay curled up on the couch, she sighed. "My birthday just doesn't feel special anymore," she said wistfully. I nodded in understanding. Our birthdays are a week apart and my biggest fantasy is to have my 4th graders shower me in packages of Expo markers as we are currently experiencing a dry erase marker drought.

Before you get all judgy-judgingstein on me, know that, of course, we got her a couple of small presents. I had also ordered flowers (and a balloon) to be delivered to work. I was excited all day; knowing how much she would love this unexpected surprise. I peered out the window as she pulled up to the house at the end of the day, juggling her flowers and the cupcakes a kind co-worker had brought in. I frowned. Where was the balloon? What kind of birthday is it without a balloon?

"Oh," Sydney said, thrusting a wrinkled, crinkly mass of colorful foil at me, "Here it is." I was astonished. "You popped it?" I gasped, disbelievingly. "Well, it was just going to deflate," she explained as Brad stepped suddenly between us to keep me from tackling her to the ground. "By that thinking, you might as well throw away the flowers because they're just going to wilt," I snarled. If I couldn't wring her neck, maybe I could wrestle the transmission out of her car. What does a transmission look like?

After I'd calmed down a bit, we transitioned to birthday dessert: chocolate pudding. Brad rummaged around in the drawer, looking for a candle. "Why do we have so many baby spoons," he asked, "Our girls are both in their twenties." With nary a birthday candle to be found, I debated a pillar candle but decided that pudding lacked the consistency to hold it heavenward. "No candle?" Sydney asked, her face falling, "What kind of birthday is it without a candle?" The illusion is shattered. The bubble burst. She finally wiped out.