Yesterday my mother showed up at my door with 13 handcrafted birthday invitations in one hand and 1.75 liters of vodka in the other. The two are mostly unrelated.
The invites are made from paper and glitter. Stamp and ink. She didn’t write in them, but provided neatly cut slips of paper with prompts for the time, place, and rsvp.
She handed them off to me proudly. Almost cooing over the tiny planet earth and the heat embossed 13. Glitter sprinkled down as I turned one over in my hand. Not the fast fall of heavy glitter but the slow drift like the first few flakes of snow before a snowstorm. Her work with the cards was done.
Later that evening K sat at the table as I made dinner and filled out each insert by hand. Making even the smallest mistake caused her to rip up the paper and toss it aside. The sound of ripping caused me to look up and cringe every time. I knew there were extras but I was afraid we would run out.
Early this morning I sat at the table and proofread, as requested. I tacked each insert into the card and slipped the black glitter covered birthday summons inside envelopes that had been carefully labeled with names and hand drawn emojis.
Later today my daughter, my still 12-year-old daughter, will hand deliver these cards to a special group of friends. Girls that she can’t imagine her life right now without. While K will be giving her friends the cards, they were made, with so much love, for her. With the hope that her birthday party will be wonderful. That she will feel joy. And pride. That her party will be a series of amazing moments to enjoy with her friends. Yes, those 13 invites were all for her.
The vodka is made from potatoes. It’s just for me.
