I am a horrible daughter.
I’m not one usually, though. I have always tried to help my parents with chores, go and finish errands for them, and generally hang out with them whenever they desire company.
But yesterday, I had to add another tick to the horrible daughter list.
I forgot my father’s birthday.
I didn’t mean to! Honest! It had been a busy past few weeks, what with editing my book over and over again when I really should just take a deep breath and start sending queries already, plus the weather had taken a turn to the hot and muggy side. It isn’t the greatest argument, but it’s what I’m going with.
The worst part was I had committed my parents’ birthdays to my mind since I was knee high to a duck, always circling the dates on calendars and drawing poor pictures of cakes with frantic candles on them. And yet, with all those reminders, I still forgot my father’s birthday.
This isn’t the first time I have forgotten a birthday either. It’s always one thing or another it seems; always getting ready to head back to school, running around to pay off bills, taking care of emergencies, etc. Yet, for the most part, I’ve always remembered to make a cake or to buy something small for my parents. It wouldn’t have been anything grand or complex as they deserve, but it was certainly a token of my appreciation for them constantly putting up with my shenanigans through the years.
In truth, it wouldn’t be half as bad if I haven’t also forgotten my Mom’s birthday as well. Why does that make it bad? Their birthdays are literally two days apart. Yeah. So if I forget one, I usually forget the other as well. I have done that in the past, but lately I either forget one or the other.
Anguish and shame aside, I do have an idea: When they go out for their date this weekend, I’ll just simply stay out of their way and clean the house. And when I say clean, I mean so-spotless-you-could-eat-off-the-basement-floor-clean (Seriously though, never do that – it’s smelly and musty and covered in decades-old cement dust down there.)
That’ll make both of them happy. At least, I know it’ll make Mom happy. And when she’s happy, so is Dad 90% of the time.
And then maybe I can manage to crawl out of the proverbial dog house long enough to have some fun before I have to slink right back in.
L.J. LaBree 