Happy 12th Birthday…or 8th…or 15th?

Each year I spring out of bed the morning of September 18 with a twinkle in my eye and a skip in my step. It is my birthday, a day of celebration. There will be cake, yes; I am a year older, yes; my friends and family shower me with love and goodies, yes. These are all very exciting, but the reason I jump out of bed and run to the mailbox, the reason why I painstakingly count down 364 days, is because I will have a present from my great-grandparents in Michigan. And my great-grandparents, well, they are very, very old.

These presents are unorthodox to say the least. When I was younger and ungrateful, I would pout and toss them aside. Where is Malibu Barbie! But I have grown accustomed to the gifts and now my entire family sits impatiently waiting for each September 18 to see what goodies may cause us to burst into uncontrollable fits of side-busting laughter.

September 18, 1995
My seventh birthday. I have dutifully been building my Barbie collection. A package from my aunt and uncle in Vermont reveals a hot pink convertible with an automatic retracting roof. Bliss. The only thing that could make today better would be the addition of Theresa, Barbie’s brunette friend. Having brown hair myself, I have been longing for her. Tearing into a medium-size package from Granny and Grandpa, my heart begins to beat faster with hope. Finally! Through the tissue paper! It’s a, it’s a… It’s seven packaged McDonald’s Happy Meal toys. Thoughtful, one for each year.

September 18, 2001
My 13th birthday. At last, a teenager. No surprise, I’m into teenager things. Make-up, clothes, boys, terrible pop music. After opening all of my presents, the smell of fruity lotions and glitter-filled lip-gloss tubes is nearly unbearable. My mother hands me a present. It’s pink - this is a good sign. Further observation reveals postage from Michigan. My heart sinks a little as I remember earlier unfruitful deliveries, nonetheless, the package is still pink, and I think they must be catching on. As I open the small, lightweight box, visions of sparkling jewelry fill my mind. I pull out shampoo and conditioner in ketchup packet shaped containers. The Ramada Inn logo is stamped on the front of each. I’m beginning to think this is a joke.

September 18, 2004
Sweet 16 - The birthday to end all birthdays thus far. It’s no surprise that the quest for becoming the most popular girl in school has consumed my life. To reach this goal however, I will need some help from some birthday presents (mainly the acquisition of a brand new car). After opening my presents I find myself draped in the newest styles in clothes, an iPod, and a new hair straightener. Alas, no car. However, there is hope. An enveloped postmarked from Michigan sits in my lap. I know that at the end of a very sick joke my great-grandparents have been playing on me for the past 16 years, they will have enclosed a check for $8,000 - just enough to buy a car. Surprise! And you thought we were just incredibly senile all these years. Opening the card reveals a deflated purple balloon that reads “Congrats Grad.” Maybe next year.

September 18, 2006
Eighteen years old and a freshman in college. Surely this will factor into the present to end all presents from my jokester grandparents. Packages arrive at my dorm room containing checks and collegiate living essentials. Something is missing. Nothing was sent from Michigan. Is 18 the cut-off year? Incredibly confused, I search my brain for some reason they may have stopped their gifts. I had sent them a thank you card every year at the insistence of my mother. “Kaleigh, I know they sent you a pack of crayons when you turned 15, but it’s the thought that counts.” Thinking harder about my thank you notes, I realized that I had ever so slowly evolved my thanks into notes of sarcasm that tickled me as I wrote them.

Dear Granny and Grandpa,
Thank you so much for the thoughtful white sticky-note pad. The coffee stain gives it character. I’ll be sure to use it for the invitations to my 15th birthday party. The family is well.
Love,
Kaleigh

Maybe they weren’t as senile as I thought. Maybe they had had it with my facetiousness. But wait. What was this manila envelope that I had missed in my mailbox. Excited when I saw MI, and knowing that this present must be the one that would count (Money, after all, I am a poor college student), I tore it open. There in the bottom of the envelope was a plastic wrapped package containing a giant piece of chocolate shaped like the state of Idaho. Idaho. They aren’t even from Idaho, I’m not even from Idaho. Why the hell would they send me chocolate in the shape of Idaho? Disappointed, but ever so amused, I decided to eat it. Might as well. After, I found a note at the bottom of the package:



Dearest Kaleigh,
Happy Birthday! We are giving away some of our possessions as we reach the end of our long, fruitful lives. We have decided to send you this chocolate Idaho we bought together on a trip in ’61. Please keep it safe.
Love,
Granny and Grandpa
PS. Thank you for all your thoughtful thank you notes.

Maybe they aren’t so senile after all.