Last month I celebrated a birthday (70…something). I awoke that morning with something close to childish anticipation as to what the day might bring. Regardless of age, I haven’t outgrown the warm fuzziness that comes with feeling special. My logic told me our family members are too busy to give much attention to the individuals who happen to have all been born the same month. Besides me, there are two grandchildren, a daughter-in-law, a mother-in-law, as well as numerous close friends who have birthdays the week preceding Thanksgiving, and coupled with the Grandparents’ Days that come at the children’s schools along with preparations for Thanksgiving…well, suffice it to say, I wasn’t expecting a huge celebration.
My day landed on the Sunday before Thanksgiving and some of our sons had already arrived to enjoy some good deer hunting Thanksgiving week. By lunchtime, all five of them were here. When Pops and I got home from church, the boys had congregated in our kitchen and announced that they were going in to town to pick up our lunch. They came back with bags of takeout from a local restaurant. I stood and watched as our adult sons set the table and put out the food.
When we gathered around the table, it was reminiscent of years gone by when it was just Pops and I and our five sons. They even found themselves in the same places where they used to sit. They seemed to fill up the space more than they did years ago. The oldest son couldn’t sit with his legs bent in front of him the way he used to (although Dad scolded him for doing it) when he had “growing pains.” And the youngest son didn’t fit too well on the corner spot (which he always hated) the way he did back then.
This is my birthday…IRL!
Everything was the same, but different. We couldn’t talk about the last girl they’d dated or the score of a recent high school game they’d played in. There was no discussion about where anyone was going to college or who had an upcoming job interview. The anticipation of each son’s future career is over; the mystery of what their adult lives would look like has been revealed. They’re grown men now; most with wives, children, and businesses of their own. To a degree, their father and I are simply observers.
Yet, for a few hours, I was the focus of their attention. And the recipient of the most precious gift they could give me: TIME. They sat relaxed around the table; nobody checked his cell phone; nobody had to excuse himself to deal with a child’s behavior; nobody looked at his watch. Instead one of them pulled out a deck of cards and we played a game. I read them a few excerpts from one of my old journals. We shared some laughs and some good memories.
I recently read a comment on a blog post that said, “New research published in the Journal of the American Geriatrics Society found that the best way to fend off depression was to have quality time with loved ones in person — not via some newfangled, high tech communication device. How about that?” I understand there’s a move among Millennials to get people to stop so much technological connection and instead form real, human relationships. Our sons are young enough to remember when we didn’t have those devices. Hopefully they will rear their children to grow up without a gadget wall around them.
I wish I could convey just how special this birthday was to me. They gave me the ultimate gift.
They gave me their time.
I’m grateful to them, and I’m grateful to their wives who realized I just needed to be with my boys.
