Lucy's Snippets: My Birthday Party When I Turned Two-Digits Old

My friends gave me what my family couldn't

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

Note: Lucy’s Snippets is a novel in progress. Lucy is 36, is a hair stylist, and had a very rough start in life. She has grit and determination as she pursues a personal do-over.

What kid isn’t excited to suddenly have a two-digit age?

Victoria had been asking me what we were going to do to celebrate.

“You can come to my house, and we can make a cake with rainbow frosting and sprinkles.”

That sounded fun, but I didn’t want to give up on having a real party at home. I don’t know why I was hopeful that we could make this happen, but maybe it was the child in me who still wanted what most children in my neighborhood seemed to have, that being a family.

When I say “family,” I don’t mean a mom, dad, or brother in title only. I mean people who care for each other and share significant moments together — like birthdays when you become ten or Thanksgiving.

So I got up my courage and asked my mom whether we could have a party.

“A party?” she asked.

“Yes, a party. Mom, I’m turning ten. That’s two digits. I think a party would be great because it’s a really big birthday.’”

Of course, as I write this now, I laugh that ten seemed like a “really big birthday,” but it’s how I felt at the time. I’m learning that feelings shouldn’t be denied, even if they don’t make sense. So-called irrational feelings need to be accepted, too. Maybe my hype around turning ten was one of them.

I pretty much guilted my mom into saying “yes.” She didn’t want the party, but she was enough of a mom (and by this, I mean barely enough of a mom) to not want to disappoint her soon-to-be 10-year-old daughter.

I had eight friends over, and we began with a scavenger hunt. I had laid it out well, and Victoria helped, but then she promised that she’d forget where we hid things so that she could play. It was fun at the start, plus I loved seeing a pile of presents.

My mom went all out and bought soda and a sheet cake. My dad said he had to work, which I didn’t believe, but I also didn’t care. My brother went to hang out with his friends, only to come back later stoned.

But what do I remember about the party?

I remember that we were singing karaoke when my dad returned home. I could tell by the way he was walking that he had downed a little too much liquor. My mom saw that, too, and tried to send him to their bedroom so he’d be out of the way.

It didn’t work because soon we heard,

“This is my house, and I will go anywhere I please. But can you tell Lucy and her friends to stop singing? It’s giving me a headache.”

Victoria saw my mood change, and she came to my rescue. Her house was one block away and was always a “happy house,” as I saw it.

“Lucy, I have a great idea. Let’s everyone go to my house. We can sing if we want. We can take turns on my trampoline. We’ll do whatever you want. After all, it’s your day.”

So once again, Victoria and her family rescued me from my dysfunctional and embarrassing family. I held back my tears, and we all trotted down the block to Victoria’s. My mom looked stunned and was silent as we exited. Then she said,

“Lucy, at least I can drive over the cake and soda. I bought candles, too.”

For my mom, this was going all out.

I shook my head, yes, but still didn’t speak because I wasn’t sure how the words would come out — strong? Wobbly? Choking back the tears?

We finished the party at Victoria’s, and everyone had a grand old time. When I came home later, I looked at my dad and saw him for the sad, broken guy that he was. I didn’t know what to say to him, so I said nothing, which was just as well.

My mom tried to make excuses for him because she didn’t want to admit his brokenness. She was broken, too. She didn’t have the strength to leave him, and she didn’t have the power to make our home close to anything healthy.

My brother didn’t wish me a happy birthday, but he did ask me if I wanted some weed for a present, and he would show me how to smoke it. I told him, “No thanks.”

When I returned to school on Monday, our teacher wanted to celebrate my birthday. She does that for everyone in our class. I gave her the happy highlights — scavenger hunt, going to Victoria’s house and playing on the trampoline, my mom getting a big sheet cake with sprinkles, and giving everyone their own can of coke.

As I retell this moment, I realize that at a very young age, I developed the habit of editing my reality. I cut out the ugly moments — my dad drunk, my mom embarrassed, my brother getting high with his friends — and instead, I pasted in the good moments. It was my version of face painting.

I think this habit of mine kept me sane. I also learned to be a very good friend to my friends, who had become my family.

I wouldn’t have another big birthday until I turned 18, which was fine with me.