When my father was just a few months younger than I am today, he attempted to organize a surprise birthday celebration for my mother. She was turning thirty—a milestone that, despite her usual indifference toward such occasions, marked a significant transition from youth to adulthood. My father, who was six months her junior and deeply invested in the notion of memorable celebrations, was determined to make this birthday special.
He dedicated considerable effort to planning the event, inviting numerous friends who were eager to honor my mother, who would never dream of orchestrating something similar for herself. Lacking experience in party planning, he entrusted much of the food arrangements to others but took it upon himself to order a dozen cheesecakes from a local bakery, knowing my mother’s fondness for them. The plan was for friends to contribute dishes potluck-style, while the children would entertain my sisters and me, ensuring a joyous occasion for my mother.
However, the day of the party coincided with a severe flu outbreak in Pittsburgh. As he picked up the cheesecakes, the phone rang with cancellations—almost all the guests and their children were ill. Disheartened, my father canceled the celebration, and instead, he and my mother marked her thirtieth birthday quietly, storing away as much cheesecake as they could and consuming the rest over the following weeks.
At just three years old, I was completely unaware of the disappointment surrounding that day. My memories of my mother’s thirtieth birthday revolve around my parents’ smiles, my sisters and I receiving My Little Ponies, and the unusually tidy state of our home.
Now, approaching my own thirtieth birthday, I find myself reflecting on my father’s intentions and the significance behind them. I can empathize with his desire to create a special day for my mother, and I understand why my mother, at my age and with her own children, would wish to buy presents for herself on her birthday. I recognize the helplessness my father must have felt in wanting to devote a memorable day to her.
When you spend your days at home, focusing solely on your children, the only time life feels about you is when something goes tragically wrong—illness, injury, or loss. The alternative is to assert your own needs, but that often detracts from the joy of the occasion, particularly when surrounded by children. Ensuring their happiness becomes paramount, so it’s no wonder my recollections of my mother’s birthday are filled with images of my new purple pony bouncing on the dining room table.
As I approach this milestone, I envision my father at my age—his blue jeans, worn t-shirts, and bright smile. I can conjure a vivid image of him then, even if he feels more like a distant relative than the father I know today. Piecing together memories of him is like assembling a puzzle, each fragment a tangible moment that shaped my understanding of him.
Conversely, I struggle to visualize my mother at thirty. I can recall her hands skillfully rolling cookie dough, her silhouette at the bottom of the stairs, and the way she would walk ahead of me, her shirt tail concealing her back pocket as she retrieved money for the ice cream truck. Yet, her face eludes me, remaining an abstract presence in my memory—a force of love and discipline that is somehow both tangible and elusive.
As a child, I studied my father, this fascinating man who disappeared to “work,” while my mother was always there, a constant in my life. I never needed to look for her; her presence was assured. If I shouted, she would come. If I misbehaved, she would discipline. In times of fear or sadness, I could run to her, enveloped in her embrace and the soothing cadence of her voice.
At thirty, my mother was a spectral presence to me. Now, I find myself embodying her role. Like my father, I attach significance to birthdays, though I struggle to pinpoint why. It feels superficial, yet it resonates deeply. I empathize with my father, a man navigating fatherhood at twenty-nine, and I feel connected to my mother, even if she remains an enigma. Despite the similarities in our lives, I find it difficult to fully inhabit her experiences.
This realization brings me closer to all mothers—those who remain a shadowy, omnipresent force in their children’s lives. I feel a profound grief for those moments of invisibility, where the essence of motherhood often goes unrecognized. I embody that vibration, a mysterious force, destined to fade from my children’s memories, continuously replaced by the evolving face that they see before them.
When I envision my mother, it’s her current self I see—perhaps a bit grayer and thinner, yet familiar in her essence. The vibrant young woman she once was remains a stranger to me, and I mourn the loss of that part of her, the part I will never truly know.
This introspection isn’t unique to me; I see it reflected in my own children, who once gazed at me with unwavering attention but now rush past without acknowledgment. Perhaps it isn’t turning thirty that troubles me but the fear of losing my identity in motherhood. I grapple with the thought that I might already be a ghost in my children’s lives, my presence overshadowed by an echo of love and comfort that will linger long after I am gone.
While I mourn the loss of my former self, I am simultaneously filled with a profound joy. I have always yearned to be a force of benevolence, to be loved so deeply that I dissolve into the very essence of love itself, caring fiercely for every child, every individual.
I have always wanted to be a mother.
Summary
This reflective piece explores the theme of motherhood and the ways in which parental identities can become invisible over time. The author draws parallels between her own experiences and those of her parents, particularly focusing on her mother’s role as an omnipresent yet often unacknowledged figure. As she approaches her thirtieth birthday, she grapples with feelings of loss and the desire to leave a lasting impact on her children, while recognizing the bittersweet nature of motherhood.