It was a cryptic little text message that took me a minute or two to figure out.
It read: “Hi, it’s Lauren. Do you remember what day it is today?”
It was from my sister in Tampa, that high schoolin’ theater nut with a penchant for dying her hair pink and thinking her brothers are running on two expired brain cells, share between us.
She had impeccable grammar for a text message, and I was impressed. But did I know what day it was? What kind of question was that?
“Of course I do,” I almost texted back, “it’s Saturday.” But as she’s the smart one in the bunch, it occurred to me there had to be something more. What she really meant, in high-school-kid-code, was: “Hey, doofus. Today is a very important day and you better shake that bag of rocks on your shoulder so you remember … quick!”
But what was it? What could it be? Think, think, think … August. Aug. 22. What happened on … BINGO! What day do I forget every August — and I mean EVERY August?
Dad’s birthday!
And I forgot it again. Worse still, I had to be reminded by a high school kid. Someone who is supposed to be so vain, self-absorbed and clueless that she can’t be bothered with the simplest and most mundane things in life, like breathing. Yet she remembered … and even had to remind her older brother. Shoot, she even knew I would forget. Why else would she text me?
I felt bad. Low. Even worse, I was out at dinner celebrating a friend’s birthday. I snuck outside — pitiful and pathetic — to make a call to Tampa.
“Hey, uh, dad,” I said when he answered. “Today’s kind of an important day, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Well, then I think you better thank your daughter because if not for her, I would have totally forgotten.”
He had a good laugh about it.
But why can’t I remember his birthday? I don’t have a problem with other family members. My wife’s is easy to remember, if only because I don’t want to die a young man. My daughter’s birthday is the day after Christmas, and my mom’s and sister’s are close enough to Christmas that you kind of associate them with the holidays. My brother is a week from mine, and my aunt’s I never forget because my mother always reminds me.
But my dad’s is impossible — like a brain teaser. It’s stealthy and sneaks up on you in the heat. August is a no-man’s land — a virtual desert with no markers or birthday signs to help steer the way. Nothing hints at its coming or gives me a mental tweak.
And I know that’s no excuse, or at least it’s a bad one. But it escapes me every time.
I think my dad, trying to help my brother and I along, drops hints. But we’re too dense to catch-on. He says simple, subtle things like, “So, I’ll be turning a year older soon … in three days” or “Boy, I sure hope my two dumb-ass sons don’t forget my birthday again this year.” Nothing obvious.
But we don’t get the message, and inevitably it slips by before we even catch wind of it.
“Hey, dad,” I’ll call to ask. “Um, wasn’t it your birthday recently, because I think we missed it?”
“Oh yeah, you definitely missed it,” he says. “But it was just four months ago. No big deal.”
I feel like dirt. Worse than dirt — dirt poop!
But he’s always a good sport about it, too good probably.
So, happy birthday, pop. Almost missed it this year, but thanks to your responsible daughter, you at least got a call. I’ll try to remember next year, or maybe I’ll just pay Lauren to send me another text message reminder.