The Sixteenth Birthday Fiasco

I'm writing this hoping my StepDaughter will one day read it, just not this week. Or next month. Maybe not for a year or so.

Or maybe tomorrow.

Yes, this has all the elements of a good family drama in it - shock, surprise, humor, denial, grudges, battles, and of course, lots of love for a charming, witty, talented young lady I'd give the earth to if I could. And so would anybody - she's that wonderful.

A week or so ago, Hubby and I were presented with Stepdaughter's 16th birthday wish-list.

It was a wonderful list. It was short, and it was obvious from the contents that it had been carefully thought-out. There was an Mp3, and money, of course, at the top of the list. Then came a request for trips to the rock-climbing place - definitely affordable. A request to finally get her duvet-cover MADE - we'd purchased the fabric LAST year, and never made it yet. And also on the list was - are you ready for this? - a new set of bed sheets.

I could have cried. That's so MATURE! For a 16 year old girl to realize that our finances are such that a set of bed sheets, which normally would come filed under "household expenses", to be put on a birthday wish-list... Well, I was impressed. You know you're growing up when your wish lists contain linens and appliances!

Hubby and I agonized over how much money to give her. Because the budget doesn't have ANY room at all - not for $25, certainly not for $100, which was what we eventually gave her.

And Hubby signed her up for courses at the rock-climbing establishment, which you have to take before you can do any real climbing.

We briefly discussed having the florist deliver a corsage on her birthday morning with a single pink rose, for her to wear all day. We decided it would be too ostentatious. After all, lots of other kids have birthdays, and they don't get to wear corsages all day!

And I put my head down and got to work on the duvet. It took three full days work. And there's a subplot, involving StepSon.

Subplot A: Stepson's story

Stepson is (hopefully) going to start work tonight as a busboy. He's been not working since the beginning of September. Ergo - he has no money, therefore, no gift to Stepdaughter.

He was peacefully snoring his heart out at ten yesterday morning, when I couldn't find an item I needed to finish the duvet cover properly. A seam-binding with particular qualities. I know I have another roll here somewhere... but last week my shelves fell down, and I'm still digging out from under the rubble.

ANYWAY... Hubby said to give the phone to Stepson, he'd tell him to get up and go buy the stuff for me from Fabricville. I said, was that wise? Let sleeping teenagers lie, etc etc etc.

Hubby said "He's feeling guilty about not having anything to give her. It'll make him feel good."

I said "Can I quote you?"

Long story short, eventually Stepson DID get up, go to Fabricville, pick up the item, come home cheerfully and proceeded to bake his sister's birthday cake.

But here's the subpot part: I kept wondering if Stepson would remember that, for his birthday this year, he got squat. Or rather, his Dad made him a lemon-meringue pie. No card, no gifts. No money.

And his aunt & uncle also gave him squat.

That's because Stepson was in the proverbial doghouse at the time. No need to go into details. Suffice it to say, for those dear readers who don't know Stepson, he was 19 going on 6, with all the attributes that go with that particular demographic group. And he was being given a clear message: no more gifts. Nothing more for free. Get a job.

So, back to yesterday. I kept wondering how much resentment lingered in Stepson's mind, or how much was going to be built up, over his sister's 16th birthday. We were joking about a birthday card he could make for her "On your 16th birthday, Sis, I forgive you for being born!" We laughed over that one, he and I. Then he pulled an unused birthday card from off a shelf, and said "I didn't even get a card on MY birthday! Here it is!"

And, of course, because I can't think on my feet, I told him the truth. "Oh - that was for my stepmom's birthday," I said. "You're in good company - I never gave her a card, either! And you were kind of in the doghouse, dear, on your birthday this year."

Oops. The look on his face was utter shock. He immediately hid it and turned away. But up to that point, he had not realized that the omissions were, in fact, intentional. He had honestly thought we'd all just forgotten, and he'd been fine with that. But now, it hurt.

Oops. We'd meant the message to sting, but we'd meant it to sting BACK THEN - not NOW, when he was being NICE.

End of subplot A.

Okay, so there I was, frantically sewing all day. My back was aching, my neck was going into spasms, I was too stiff to stand up. The thing was beautiful. Her dad had designed it, I'd done the cutting and sewing, and she was getting a piece of artwork for her bed that was special and unique. And, for once in my life, flawless. I done good!

I was still doing good when she arrived home. I was one half-hour short of finishing it. I kept sewing, since, well I figured she'd known I was working on it anyway, and if not, well, the best place to hide things is in plain sight... So I just kept sewing. I'd wanted to finish it and have it on her bed before she came home from school, but we'd lost time looking for the seaming stuff, so there we were.

Stepdaughter and Friend arrived, breathless, excited, positively glowing. Came right into the sewing room, and plonked down in dramatic fashion, the following items.

One dozen perfect Red Roses, complete with Baby's Breath and Greens, in their Clear Plastic Wrapping with Kisses all over it.

Four helium-filled balloons - one a metallic that said "Happy 16th Birthday", tied with multi-colored ribbons to a small tin.

Four other packages containing things like makeup and gift cards, etc.

She opened the tin and said "Read this! This all came during English class!" She was radiant.

I read the note. It said "Pack your bags darling - you're going to ENGLAND!"

Subplot B: The Trip to England

Every year the school does this trip to England during March break. Stepkid had figured out a while ago that our budget just didn't have room to pay for this trip, and had not said a word to anyone.

But two weeks ago, in casual conversation with her RealMom, she let something drop. One of her frineds was going, or something like that. RealMom got the details.

End of Subplot B.

Yesterday, during the school day, RealMom's Big Surprise took place.

RealMom had arranged with the English Teacher not to tell Stepkid about the Big Surprise.

RealMom had got her friend to go to the florist, get the balloons, do all the fancy fussing-up, all those special things one can do with presents that turn a room into a rainbow of hearts and flowers. Spectacular, Unexpected, Dreamy. Special.

Said friend arrived at the door of English Class. English Teacher welcomes Friend in, who brings this rainbow of delight to Stepkid, who starts crying with joy immediately. Who opens the tin. Who finds out that she's going on the unaffordable trip after all. Who cries more. Who's cell phone rings, who's RealMom is on the phone to hear her daughter's excitement. Friend, RealMom, English Teacher and Stepkid are all crying and shrieking with delight.

Sigh. It was beautiful. I can see it, just like it was on the silver screen, perfectly timed and choreographed down to the last detail.

Then Stepkid's Friend said "Hey! Is that the duvet cover you're sewing?!"

I just looked at her. Gee, thanks, Friend.

"Oh! Ha-ha!" laughed Stpkid. "I didnt even notice!"

They went away, leaving the rainbow sitting on my sewing table. I continued to sew.

I was thinking about the other kids. The ones in the English class. The ones who aren't going to England, The one whose cancellation made a spot come available for Stepkid. The ones who had just turned 16 themselves or who were about to, and no sudden unexpected trip to England was waiting for. Or Roses, or Balloons, or strangers arriving to interrupt the class, or to whom no cell phone calls were permitted during class time.

And I know exactly how they felt, watching all this excitement over Stepkid's 16th birthday. They might not have the vocabulary for it, but it's there.

"What's so special about her that she gets to have a phone call with her mother during class time?"

" Why are my parents making me work and pay for my own trip to England, or, why are my parents making me pay half my trip to England, or, why aren't my parents letting me go at all?"

"How come I didn't get roses on my 16th birthday?"

I thought about how Hubby and I had decided that a single pink rose corsage was too ostentatious.

And I sighed, and got on with finishing the duvet cover.

I don't remember my 16th birthday. I remember my 13th, because that's when I got my first bra.

I remember my Daughter's 13th, because that's when I wrote lyrics to a popular song and sang it for her. On my Daughter;'s 16th, I didn't have any money. But I gave her the engagement ring her father had given me, and she treasures it.

Well, Stepkid's evening progressed. When she first came home, she was of course full of adrenaline and plans for the evening, even though it was a school night. She and fifteen friends were going to Starbuck's, Village, Body Shop. She had a gift card to use at Body Shop that was only good on your birthday, and you got a discount or something. They were all going roaming the wide world over. "What time's supper" she wanted to know, since she had to plan all this for herself and her friends, and timing would be critical.

"Uh... I wanted to finish this," I said.

"That's okay!" Out she bounced, higher than a kite.

I finished the duvet cover and put it on her duvet, washed my hands and went to work making supper. I was halfway through chopping when Hubby got home, exhauseted, as usual, to see the dozen roses sitting in a vase on the table. And got told the story of the English Class Surprise from RealMom. Made all the appropriate "oohing & aahing" sounds. Tiredly got up to help me with the chopping.

Once it was cooking, I went to lie down, to give my back and my neck and my knees a rest.

And after dinner, the disappointment blow was cast. I felt awful, I went to bed. I wasn't going to drive her to the body shop.

And neither was her dad. He was tired.

She could see this - you'd have had to be blind not to see how tired he was. Every night he comes home, I worry he's in the middle of having a heart attack, that's how tired he looks.

"Pleeze!" she tried on him. Smiling, cajoling, all to no avail. She'd come bump against a fact of life: we are old, tired people. She worked on both of us for over an hour. In bed, I could hear her on the phone, couldn't make out the words, but I think she was crying. Uh-oh. The Princess has been let down. Sorry kid. I'm dead. Some other birthday.

Whe Hubby came to bed, I don't know what time, we cuddled up and he let out a long sigh.

"It's a wonderful gift," I said.

"Um-hm."

"Delivered in sensational style, as usual," I said.

"Um-hm."

RealMom has Style, with a capital "S". Gotta hand it to her.

Trying to comfort Hubby, I pointed out that RealMom probably got her dad to pay for the trip.

"Um-hm."

In one masterful stroke, she had undone anything we'd done for Stepkid's celebration. Blink, and you missed it. Boy, that was fast. "What did you get for your 16th birthday?" "A trip to ENGLAND!!!" Period.

There's no way to compete with RealMom. She's a force of Nature.

Subplot C: My high-schooling

I, too, received special treatment in high school. Like Stepkid, I was bright. Actually only studied one subject, and that for one week, to coast through and get a gold medal for the highest marks in the whole school board.

Other kids had to do the assignments as they were assigned. I got let off, because I'd been writing about something else, and the teachers loved my spark, and they let me do my own thing.

I loved it at the time. Got my own way - what teenager wouldn't have loved special treatment?

But it didn't help me. I never went on to university. I went to one class. Did half a term. Failed miserably - MISERABLY.

Because I'd never learned to work hard.

Univeristy is geared to hard workers. Like life. You can't get a degree by being smart. You have to do the work.

And I didn't have any friends in high school, either. And with 20/20 hindsight, I can see why. "Teacher's Pet."

With 20/20 hindsight, I should have failed a bunch of high school courses, not been rewarded for not doing the assignments.
That might have wakened me up to reality. In time to save my education.

As it is, I woke up to reality when I was a single mom in my thirties, the day my dad said "No. You can't have any more money. You have to pay your own bills."

What - I'm responsible for my own financial security?! How come nobody told me this before?!!!

End of Subplot C.

So, the first day of Stepkid's seventeenth year was sensational, over-the-top, joyous... well, if you don't count the fact that nobody drove her out to the Body Shop...

She'll remember it all her life. It was a marvelous, magical, thrilling event. It may outshine her Graduation or her Wedding.

I remember flamboyant. I used to be flamboyant. I used to hate people who told me I was flamboyant. Over the top. Loud. Flashy. Sensational.

But that's been beaten out of me, bit by bit, step by step, since the day Daddy said "No," and I've been paying my own bills.

Now the task remains - get Stepkid through highschool, through University, with her Flair and Panache intact, while still getting her an education, teaching her to work hard, to save her money, to pay her own way. To be sensitive to the fact that not everybody around her is having as good a time as she is. To try to explain to her somehow that though the England trip is in fact a wonderful gift, the news COULD have been delivered quietly, without a big show. Her Dad could have been told of it. That the flowers are lovely and the gifts wonderful, but they could have been delivered here, not at school, not in front of her classmates, and by extension, the whole school. That there was no need to rub everybody's nose in the fact that she's a sweet kid and her RealMom loves her.

To try and somehow get it through to her that EVERY kid's mom loves them, that EVERY kid at her high school turns 16 this year, but that not every kid got this sensational treatment, that there will be resentment she won't know of or won't understand... Or won't notice.

Without spoiling her fun.