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| F, 2010 |
Or twelve-and-a-half.
It was the 13th birthday party of a girl in his class (a few weeks ago now). A rather bright, sophisticated girl, who - in a bold guesture of inclusiveness unheard of since they were all little babies in Class 2 - asked the boys as well as the girls to her party.
I ask F what we should get A for her birthday present. He says, “Nothing, just money. That’s what kids my age want Mum.”
‘What?” I say, “You just shove them a $10 or $20 note and say Here y’are”?
“Yes, Mum”, he says patiently.
Naturally I think this sounds appallingly ungracious on the part of the giver, mercenary on the part of the birthday child, and just, just... just grubby and impersonal and awful.
I’m also thinking of the sweet birthday party ritual of the unwrapping of the presents, with everyone sitting around eager and bright-eyed. The rustle of colourful paper, the gasps of delight and envy. I’m thinking about style and personal guesture and...
Get over it, Mum, Move on. This is adolescence. This is thirteen.
Fortunately I also remember my long-dead Great Aunt Dorothy who used to send me a pound note from England on my birthday every year. My mother was unimpressed but I loved the free spending power of that cold cash. So I relent . Feeling not entirely happy about it.
“What about a card?” I say, “At least you could make her a nice card”. F is a boy who has been known to spend hours working lovingly on intricate drawings for his friends*.
“Nah”, he says.
He agrees, at last, at least, to an envelope. I find a pretty purple one and suggest he writes his greetings on it. Nicely. He scrawls, To A, from F
‘It’d be too embarrassing”, he explains, to do more than that. “People would tease me, they’d think I really liked her...”
Okay, now I get it. Duh.
He puts on his cool sunglasses and his cowboy hat and I take him off to the party.
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* like this one for his mate Leroy a year ago
p.s. for the latest Class 7 birthday celebration, I insisted on a book voucher.
