I remember so very clearly the day my mom turned 30. We were at the church, doing work as usual, and she and her pal Margaret were sent on a “beverage” run. Somehow, I ended up in tow and we sped off to the gas station in the dune buggy. (Is this story sounding a little surreal? Like a dream sequence, maybe? Uh-huh, and now you understand how I turned out because this was my childhood. And it was awesome.)
I can’t recall why we went to the gas station instead of the little mom and pop shop in town. Perhaps Salida Home Market didn’t sell beer, though I can’t imagine that . . . Anyway, I opted to stay in the car due to my shyness. (Even at 5, it was profound.) It seemed that mom and Margaret were gone a looong time when finally they emerged, laughing themselves silly.
My mom had gotten carded. On her thirtieth birthday. It was almost as good as winning the lottery, the way they kept on about it.
The kicker? She didn’t have her i.d.
I don’t remember if they came away with beer or Pepsi that day, but the memory of their laughter has stuck with me.
I remember my mom turning 30.
And it’s likely my own children will remember this day, too.
“Are you so ‘ub-sited’ tomorrow is your birthday?” Tess asked.
“Mom. Tomorrow you turn 30, right?” “Yes, Philip.” “You know how I know? “How?” “Because TODAY you’re 29 and tomorrow you won’t be.”
I know. I know.
I thought I was okay with this. No moments of hyperventilating or waking up in cold sweats. But something nags at the back of my mind.
It feels like I am growing up.
I don’t know if I like it.
Like it or not, though, the day is here and I am a year older. 3 decades are passed, 8 years of marriage (well, almost 8), and 4 kiddos call me mom.
I plan to laugh riotously at something to mark my memory for the day. I hope it marks it for them, too.