As I get older, I become less and less of a “birthday” person. Maybe it’s because I now fall into the category of “middle aged” rather than “young adult.” Or perhaps it’s because my next age category will be “senior citizen.” (I’m not that close…but I’m not that far away either). While it’s great to be alive, each passing year is a reminder that birthdays—and all the excitement that used to accompany them—no longer have the same allure that they used to.
When I was a kid, birthdays were THE most anticipated day of the year. Especially the “milestone” birthdays:
Turning thirteen was big (finally a teenager!); sixteen even bigger (time for a learner’s permit!); eighteen felt like the start of my golden age (off to college!); and twenty-one? Well, who can remember that one? But soon after, time started skip counting. Twenty-five, thirty, forty…I’ll stop there, thank you very much.
If I could go back in time, though, I’d probably want to relive my eighth birthday. Of all the birthdays I’ve had over the years, that was one of the most special birthdays. Unfortunately for me, my eighth birthday happened to coincide with a huge, late August rainstorm. But because of all the thoughtful things my family did for me, the rain couldn’t dampen my special day. Which brings me to this blog’s life lesson: Sometimes the most meaningful gifts in life don’t have a price tag.
Here’s the story…
Taking the (birthday) cake
Birthdays in my family were exceptional experiences. Sure, we’d get a gift of some sort, but what made birthdays so wonderful was the pageantry that was part of the celebration. When you woke up, you were greeted by decorations around the house. At breakfast, my mom would put a candle on whatever the birthday child was eating (a tradition I still repeat with my children; though this proved challenging when cold cereal was their favorite breakfast option). But the fun didn’t stop there. As the birthday girl or boy, you got to choose “your” birthday meal and dessert.
My parents were quite lucky when I was little because my favorite foods were either hot dogs or spaghetti and meatballs. Not exactly culinary masterpieces, but I’ve always loved simple and easy (especially now that I’m the head chef).
Since my birthday falls at the end of August, hot dogs were, for many years, my go-to birthday dinner. This “hot dog” bubble burst in my late teens when I learned how hot dogs were made (though, to my mom’s credit, she always bought Hebrew National beef frankfurters).
And for dessert, there was no doubt that I would choose something involving chocolate. Over the years, my mom was able to perfect my grandmother’s recipe for chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. My mouth still waters at the thought of this decadent dessert.
When the end of August rolled around, there was little question of what I wanted for dinner: birthday hot dogs on the grill, baked beans from a can, and chocolate cake. I’m sure there was also some sort of vegetable involved, most likely broccoli. Birthday or not, you weren’t getting a free pass on vegetables in my house.
The only problem with the perfect meal on my eighth birthday? The forecast was for thunderstorms.
Raining cats and dogs
Normally, there were no issues when it came to grilling. My mother cooked the “indoor food,” while my dad cooked the “outdoor food.” That meant that for my birthday hot dogs, my father would be responsible for the main course.
“I’m not grilling in the rain,” my father announced when it was time for dinner preparations to begin. My mother shot him the evilest of glances.
“But Steph asked for grilled hot dogs. It’s her birthday,” she said through gritted teeth.
“You can just cook them inside.” That was my dad’s solution. But there is nothing more delicious than that crispy char of grilled meat. Birthday hot dogs could not be boiled or sauteed.
My father stood firm in his refusal.
“Fine,” was all my mother said. She was surely full of fury but didn’t say another word. Instead, she put the birthday hot dogs on her metal grilling platter, grabbed a pair of tongs, put on her raincoat, and yanked an umbrella from the garage.
In that moment, my mother was my hero. (She still is, but she guaranteed her Hall-of-Fame-Mother status right then and there.) You simply can’t put a price tag on birthday hot dogs grilled in the pouring rain.
A bun-dle of emotions
Needless to say, we all enjoyed the perfectly grilled birthday hot dogs that evening. Although I may not have noticed then, I’m pretty sure my mom glowered at my father until the dishes were cleared. (To his credit, he washed everything without protest.)
After they sang happy birthday to me and we finished our sensibly-sized slices of chocolate cake, it was time to open presents. In the interest of time, I’ve left out all the drama leading up to the question of “what will I get?” Honestly, that’s mostly because I have no recollection of the present my parents gave me. I’m sure it was something I liked. What I got from my sister, however, was a gift that I have never forgotten.
I don’t know about you, but my sibling rivalry experience ranged from idol worship to mortal enemies. I’ve lived through both with my sister. Back when I was eight, though, my sister was my hero. With three-and-a-half years between us, she seemed smarter and wiser than me. Naturally, that all changed once we became teenagers and fought like cats and dogs. (Thankfully, after those bumpy adolescent years, she’s now my best friend.)
But whatever my sister did during that blissful pre-puberty time, I wanted to replicate. I distinctly remember a pair of red sneakers with a big yellow dot on the heel that she had that year. For some reason—maybe it was the bold early 80s color choice?—I totally coveted those red sneakers. At the time, her foot was slightly bigger than mine. Given how active we were, I wasn’t optimistic that her sneakers would survive the wear-and-tear of adolescence to become hand-me-downs.
I didn’t realize that once she’d outgrown the red sneakers, she’d cleaned them and secretly stashed the shoes in her closet for me. So, when my birthday rolled around, I was completely surprised to discover that my sister—on her own initiative—had wrapped up her sneakers and gave them to me as my present.
I can’t recall a time when I’ve ever been so happy to receive a gift. (I don’t want to disappoint my husband here, so I’ll revise this statement to say, “I’ve never been so happy to receive a childhood gift.” For the record, I’ve loved all my husband’s cards and gifts.)
Heart and sole
It’s been many, many years since my eighth birthday. Looking back, it isn’t surprising that my sister would have given me such a thoughtful and considerate gift. She was and still is an incredibly generous person. (I sure hope she reads this blog to appreciate all these compliments; especially since my birthday is coming up soon—ha ha!)
But here’s the point: my sister gave me her sneakers knowing they meant more to me because they were hers. Even though the sneakers were a little bit big, guess which sneakers I wore on the first day of school that year? The new ones that fit me? Nope, I wore my sister’s old red sneakers. Just like my grilled-in-a-downpour birthday hot dogs, these gestures of love were more significant to me than the actual items.
Generosity of spirit has no price tag.
In today’s materialistic world, it’s sometimes hard to resist the tug of “want” vs. “need.” That’s why receiving a gift that doesn’t have an overt monetary value has extra wonderful meaning.
“Relish”ing experiences
Appreciating the thought rather than the item is a lesson that I try to impart to my children. That’s why I tell them “I just want a card” or ask that they do something nice when it’s a special occasion.
It’s important to me that they understand that a big price tag shouldn’t be the determining factor in making someone feel good. It’s the thought and care that should shine through.
These days, my boys are old enough to want to give their sibling a birthday present. What typically happens is that they pick out something that’s incredibly thoughtful to give to the birthday boy (I have two sons). However, neither child wants to spend his own money to buy the gift. (I’ll admit, I hated spending any of “my” money when I was a child. Apples don’t fall far from the tree.)
Because I’m a sucker for acts of kindness, I often tell them they can pay me back. I haven’t kept track of how much they owe me, though I really don’t care. For me, it’s more important to promote the act of giving than the act of paying. For now.
Soon enough, they’ll have to break open their proverbial checkbooks. But until I’m confident that I’ve planted the seeds of generosity, we’ll stick with IOUs.
And perhaps this year for my birthday, I’ll have them grill me birthday hot dogs for old time’s sake.
Have you ever received a gift that meant more to you than the price tag? Please share your stories with me in the comments section.
