What if I treated each day like my son’s birthday?

I am not talking about presents, balloons, and birthday candles -- though I enjoy such symbols of celebration. I am addressing the way I admire my son’s every expression on his birthday as if he were a newborn -- the way he wakes up and notices the light lining the shades, the long eyelashes that he shares with my dad, the way his unkempt hair reminds me that I cannot yet bear to have anyone besides me trim his curls, the way he says, “Remember when we went on a walk to Phoenix Lake, Mommy? Remember that? Let’s do that again sometime.”

This year, for his actual birthday morning, I imagine a mommy, son, and Nana outing to Crissy Field where he can ride his new bike, followed by grilled cheese and hot chocolate, but my son doesn’t want to leave the house on a cozy December morning.

My son and I weave trains up and down a mountain as my mom watches from the nearby couch. Usually, I might grow restless after hours of indoor play, but today I am engaged in each moment and lose any trace of agenda.

As long as my son is content, I am happy.

Our big excursion at noon is to the bike shop in downtown San Anselmo to adjust the height of my son’s bike seat. I photograph him outside the bike shop, and his face brightens the lackluster cement setting. He asks to see the digital photos. As I play back the shots, I notice a building behind him -- the now closed Yahiro restaurant where my husband and I ate chicken Teriyaki the night before we would be surprised with an early delivery of our dear boy.

My mom and I follow my son as he rides up and down a ramp, through puddles. As he begins to soar down the hill, he says, “Hold me, Mommy.” I place my hand over his as he grips the bike handle. He will only turn three once. But to me everyday is his birthday.

By Ariana Amini

Labels: balloons, bike, birthday candles, children's birthdays, Crissy Field, presents

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