What Good You Can't Eat

As a child, I spent a lot of time with my paternal grandparents, which resulted in me spending a lot of time, at least for the first twelve years of my life, with my great grandmother.  She is the woman in the photo on the top of my blog page and, she is the woman who is responsible, albeit indirectly, for my blog title.  What good you can’t eat?  When I hear those words in my mind they are spoken by my great grandmother, in her broken English with a heavy Polish/Russian accent. 

Katherine Paszko was her name.  We, my brothers and sister and I, called her Mom Mom Patch because we were unable to pronounce her last name.  She was my father’s maternal grandmother and, during my lifetime, lived in my grandparent’s home until she died when I was twelve.  Although she was only in my life for a short time, she has managed to have an incredible influence on me.  An influence I wasn’t really aware of for a long time.

Mom Mom Patch was an immigrant.  From what her daughter, my grandmother, told me she was born in Eastern Europe, most likely Poland, in about 1894.  My grandmother would tell me her family was from Russia, since relatives had served in the Russian army. Over the years I have learned it is more likely my family was from Poland, and the country just happened to be occupied by Russia at the time my immigrant ancestors fled to America. 

I think there was part of my grandmother that was ashamed of being Polish, with all the jokes about Polish people being stupid.  I suppose, to my grandmother, being Russian sounded so much more romantic and regal.  My grandmother was probably thinking of the Dr. Zhivago Russia and not the Josef Stalin Russia.  Whatever the country of her origin, suffice it to say my family comes from Eastern European stock and we have the thick bodies and love of cabbage to prove it.

As a child, Mom Patch looked to me nothing like the robust, laughing woman in the photo.  She was tiny and hunched over, almost shriveled.  Her thin gray hair was streaked with black and was worn short and unstyled.  She cut it herself with sewing scissors, a habit I unfortunately have picked up myself.  Unlike my grandmother, who prided herself on her appearance with weekly salon visits and a beautiful wardrobe, Mom Mom Patch didn’t seem to care about being pretty.   

I was both fascinated and a little frightened by this woman.  I was frightened because, to be quite honest, she looked a little like how I imagined a witch would look.  Her teeth were dark and kind of pointy.  Her hair was stick straight, grayish-black and a bit tousled.  In all fairness, when you’re in your eighties you don’t really spend much time on hair maintenance. 

Her one concession to “fashion” was probably the fancy silver and black cat eye glasses she wore.  They were quite dated in the 1970s and clearly she had worn them for a long time.  Having just gotten my “Jan Brady” glasses at the age of ten, I was fascinated by Mom Mom Patch’s glasses.  They were silver metal and had black inlaid filigree in a floral pattern on the corners.  They were quite fancy, but somehow did not seem out of place on a shrunken little immigrant woman wearing homemade dresses of sturdy cotton and corduroy bedroom slippers. 

She always wore an apron, no matter what she was doing.  I cannot recall ever seeing her wearing anything but her usual sturdy cotton dress and apron.  In fact, I’m now wondering what she wore in her coffin when she died.  I was there (it was my first funeral and quite a big deal) but don’t recall what she how she had been dressed.  It seems that if she was dressed in anything other than the housecoat and apron it would be wrong and out of place.  Most likely, my grandmother had her dressed to the nines.  Poor Mom Mom Patch.

The fact that I couldn’t understand a word she said also managed to increase my anxiety around her.  Most of the time I couldn’t understand a word she said.  As she grew older she reverted to her native Polish.  She would shuffle up and down the hall of my grandparent’s house doing various chores my grandmother assigned her.  She was always busy doing something – whether ironing in her room or sewing clothing for my Chrissy dolls.

The only time I can recall her relaxing was when she would listen to Bobby Vinton records on the stereo.  Bobby Vinton, being a good Polish boy, was a god in that household.  She would sit in my grandfather’s chair, wearing a giant pair of head phones on her tiny head and the slightest bit of smile of her face.  Whenever I hear “Blue Velvet” I think of my great grandmother.

 Mom Mom Patch’s idiosyncrasies even extended to her eating habits.  She always ate at the kitchen table.  For all the fancy dinners my grandmother served in the dining room, Mom Mom Patch ate in the kitchen.   She drank strong black coffee.  No sugar or cream, just the way I drink my coffee now.  I can recall her sitting at the kitchen table eating a bowl of fried cabbage, cottage cheese and apple sauce which she spread on thick slices of yeasty black bread bought from a special bakery.  When she ate she didn’t use the same utensils that everyone else did.  She used a wooden handled three pronged fork with tines so sharp they could pierce your skin. 

But, the most unnerving thing about her was that she was missing a finger.  It has been many years, but I believe she was missing the index finger on her right hand.  This was the result of an accident in a sewing factory where she had worked when she first came to this country.  What remained was the first section of that finger, from the hand to the first knuckle.  It was just a nub of a finger with a star like pattern on the end where it had been crudely sutured.  It wasn’t horribly gruesome, but it made her all the more mysterious to me.

Mom Mom Patch was always there.  In photos she was there with me and my siblings, dressed in our Christmas finery, with what looks like a smile on her wizened face.   She was there at the ironing board pressing my grandmother’s crisp white sheets.  She was there, at the kitchen table with a cup of hot black coffee reading letters from Poland filled with strange curlicue symbols written with a fountain pen.  She was a reminder, perhaps an unhappy reminder to my grandmother, of my family roots in another country, another culture.

My interaction with her, however, was peripheral.  I was a child and took her and her story for granted.  But her story, like the story of so many immigrants to this country is fascinating.  This was a woman who left her mother and the only country she had known, at the age of 16, to come to America.  Her brother had come to Philadelphia a few years before and he sponsored his younger sister’s trip.  She left, the route and mode of travel is unknown to me, and never saw her mother and her homeland again.  I cannot imagine making such a trip as a teenage girl.  One thing is for sure: this woman meant business.

Once in America she came to Philadelphia, worked in the homes of the wealthy as a maid, and then toiled for hours in various sewing factories.  Eventually she married, had a child (my grandmother) and raised her brother’s three children after both he and his wife died of an illness at very young ages.  She lived in small bungalow in Southern New Jersey, had a garden, raised chickens and made her own wine.  She took in other people’s laundry to make ends meet, a fact which my grandmother was embarrassed by until the day she died.  She did not have an easy life, particularly in the beginning, but this woman didn’t let it stop her.

I think what illustrates Mom Mom Patch the most is a comment she made when visiting my childhood home one time to see my parents vegetable garden.  It was the 70s and my parents, like most people at that time, went through their own “hippie” stage.  This meant they made candles, decoupage plaques, macramé wall hangings, and had a garden.  A very large garden from which they harvested various vegetables which they canned in heavy Ball jars and hoarded on shelves in our basement. 

One of the things my mother grew in that garden were gourds, which she dried and used for decoration.  When Mom Mom Patch came to see the garden, she had never seen a gourd before.  My mother explained to her that they were not to eat, but were only for decoration.  She looked at my mother like she was crazy and replied “What good you can’t eat.”  That sums up Mom Mom Patch - if you can’t eat it, why bother growing it.  Who has time for frivolous things like flowers and gourds when life was hard?

I hadn’t thought about this interaction in many, many years.  It was not until after my grandmother’s death, when I was going through a box of old pictures, that I again began to really contemplate this woman, Mom Mom Patch.  For years I had felt out of place in my life.  I was so unlike my mother, a flirty girly-girl, who was forever criticizing me for my lack of make-up and love of all things casual.  My grandmother, Mom Mom Patch’s daughter, was more tolerant of my tomboy ways, but she too, in her high heels and fancy suits and jewelry (she was a working mother before it was acceptable), was foreign to me.  

Not to mention the fact that I was not built like either my mother or my grandmother, who were both small and petite.   I always felt wrong and out of place, my body too solid, my breasts too big.  I joke that I come from strong peasant stock.  I have always been a very practical girl who has no need for fancy, frivolous, playful things.  I’m a serious, no nonsense broad who gets the job done and moves on.  My female role models, while hard working women, were a mystery to me.

While going through this box I came across photos of my grandmother’s family.  One of the photos (the one show at the beginning of this post) was of my grandmother (I recognized her pointy little nose and chin) standing next to a large, heavyset woman, with short bobbed hair and fat sausage like arms.  She was wearing a flowered dress and no jewelry.  Her feet were squeezed into sensible black shoes and her heavy legs were covered with cotton tights.   I recognized her immediately as Mom Mom Patch.  Physically she didn’t resemble the shrunken little woman of my youth, but there was something about the deep set eyes and the strong chin and mouth that was familiar to me.  I immediately felt a connection and a sense of acceptance – that was my body, I thought.  That is where I come from. 

This revelation got me thinking more and more about the woman that was Mom Mom Patch.  The woman that came to this country a girl and worked long and hard to raise a family, build a home and become an American.  The woman who never threw anything out but instead repurposed and reused everything.  My God, she kept a ball of used string in the kitchen drawer.  The woman who “made do” during the depression by mending and fixing and doing without.  I think she wore the same nightgown for years.  When she died we found a drawer filled with new nightgowns, still in the package, that she was saving for the hospital.  The woman who had no time for prettiness, no time for frivolity, and certainly no time for gourds!

And that, I thought, is where I come from.  I don’t just physically resemble Mom Mom Patch, I try to approach life like her too.  This revelation has given me a greater sense of belonging and a stronger connection to my roots.  Life is hard.  Often so hard you think that it will break you.  You just have to keep moving.  You have to know what is truly important and it’s often not what you think it is.  Mom Mom Patch’s words have become my mantra in life.  For me it means that often the things that we think are important, really aren’t and that sometimes through hard work and perseverance we discover what really is.  So, thank you, Mom Mom Patch for my tenacity, my doggedness, and my determination.  Thank you for helping me know the joy and satisfaction that comes from the simplest things in life.  And yes, thank you for revealing your philosophy on life - that you gotta know what’s real in order to survive.  All of this you have given to me through those simple words:  what good you can’t eat.

Strong personality – code word for bitch?

I have a “strong personality”.  That’s what a coworker recently told me when trying to explain why another coworker seemed to be bothered by my enthusiasm about a project.  While the details of my workplace traumas could supply enough material to fill a book, I want to focus on the term “strong personality” for my current entry.

            My coworker’s reference to my character trait was said after some hesitation on her part.  You know, that kind of lull in a conversation that usually precedes someone being told a hard truth.  Like a tough love revelation that is meant to snap the receiver into reality. 

In fact, she said it almost under her breath, her eyes darting around to see if anyone else could hear.  Clearly she was trying to protect me, right?  As the conversation proceeded and she worked her way up to the troublesome pronouncement, I wanted to check my nose for a stray booger and my shoes for an errant trail of toilet paper.

Strong personality, hum, I thought.  I couldn’t really argue with that.  Yeah, I am outspoken.  I am passionate about the things I do.  I am always ON, particularly in the work environment.  In fact, I pride myself on being always ready to pitch in, to lend a hand, to make suggestions.  I’m a team player, I said to myself, beaming with a bit of pride.

I was puzzled by the look on my coworker’s face and curious about the way she let the phrase “strong personality” come out of her mouth.  She spit the words out, her upper lip curling in revulsion.  It was like they left a greasy, bad taste in her mouth that she wanted to get rid of as soon as possible.  I began to doubt my pride in that label; she seemed to be a bit embarrassed and I could sense her pity for me.

I began to feel a little ashamed and in need of saving.  Like I should be sitting on a folding chair in a damp church basement clutching a stale cup of coffee.   My name is Amber, and I have a strong personality.

What could I do?  I couldn’t disagree.  I do tend to be intense when doing something I’m passionate about.  I’m not generally known for being happy and often can be quite miserable (ask my family), but when I’m doing something I like, or something I feel enthusiastic about, I do tend to turn up the volume and go all in. 

The problem is that I don’t see why my strong personality would be a bad thing, as it so clearly seemed to be to my coworker.  I come from a family of intense people.  We fight intensely and we love intensely.   Nothing is done half-way.  Everything is approached full-on, sleeves rolled up, and ready to go.  Geez, my mom used to yell “Is everybody ready?” when we got in the car, with me and my siblings proclaiming “Ja vole” in reply.  For those unschooled in the Germanic languages that loosely translates to “totally, dude!” This made even the most mundane task feel as if it were the start of a great adventure.  Corny?  Maybe, but it’s how I was raised and how I approach life.

While my initial reaction to the label “strong personality” being bestowed upon me was one of obvious agreement, my coworker’s seeming disgust gave me pause.  Was there a problem with having a strong personality?  Should I be worried about infecting others with it?

It was hard enough being a woman in this world – worrying about the size of my ass, the number of wrinkles on my face and whether I was wearing the right label – now I had to worry about my personality as well.  Maybe there was some cosmetic surgery I could get or some designer personality I could don.  You know, like a personality make-over.  My self-doubt raged on. 

I got to thinking, was the term strong personality really a pseudonym for something else?  Was it a code word for bitch?  Had I committed a faux-pas by being enthusiastic about my job?  I mean the reason for the conversation was because a coworker had been treating me rather poorly and unprofessionally.  She clearly didn’t like me and made no secret that she preferred to not be around me. 

While I was thinking of my strong personality in a positive way, I think my coworker was thinking of it in a negative way.  My female coworkers, like so many women, do not tend to be very supportive of one another.  No one supports or champions each other.  The most you can hope for is that they don’t talk about you when you leave the room.  That, my dear, is a topic for another essay.

Based on this less than supportive atmosphere, I couldn’t help but think the moniker I had been given was really code for a much more nefarious label – bitch.  Let’s face it ladies, when we don’t like each other we don’t hold back.  We will take whatever positive personality trait we can and twist into something mean and hateful in order to suit our purpose.  And here I was thinking my go-get-him attitude was a good thing! 

But then my middle aged calm came on.  This serene sense of tranquility about myself is one of the few benefits of menopause and a mid-life crisis.  It’s the feeling that you just don’t give a damn about what other people think of you.  My girlfriend calls it the “don’t-give-a-shit-ometer”.   All the hot flashes and night sweats in the world are worth getting to that point.  I think of it as God’s way of paying us back for our aging bodies.  Things sag, get wrinkled and gray, but it doesn’t matter so much because we don’t care.

So, with this same “screw it” attitude, I decided that being told I have a strong personality was a compliment and not an insult.  I had thought about it long and hard and decided to remove the stain of insult from the title strong personality.  I decided to go even further, however, and to not just neutralize the term but to exalt it as something to be desired.  It wasn’t good enough to just dismiss the term as a characterization – it would become my mantra.

Strong personality was a compliment, dammit.  It was a compliment to be accused of caring too much.  It was a compliment to be labeled tough.  It was a compliment to be regarded as someone who goes at life full force, not letting it kick you to the curb.  So yes, I thought, it was a compliment to be recognized for the way I lived my life.

So if you happen to visit my place of work, or any of the various environs I haunt, you will know me.  I’ll be the one speaking up, being strong, and living life out loud.  I will be the one saying “I’m Amber, and I have a strong personality, bitch!”

 

How Lovely to Be a Woman

"How Lovely to Be a Woman".  This song, from the 1960’s musical “Bye, Bye Birdie”, was playing in my mind as I underwent a breast biopsy today.  Yes, the lovely vocal stylings of the beautiful Miss Ann Margaret ran through my brain as I lay face down on a table in a cold operating room, my naked breast dangling through a hole.  Odd pairing?  Of course, but, I couldn’t help but smile at the irony of those idyllic lyrics about womanhood, sung in Techni-color glory on the big screen, contrasted with the stark reality of what it means to be a woman in the real world.

There I lay, my face looking at a gray wall, my right check pressed into the table, my left arm trying to relax while my right arm was held straight down my side.  I could feel myself drooling out of the side of my mouth as I tried to regulate my breathing in a relaxed manner.  The doctor told me to make myself comfortable and covered me with a blanket to ward off the chill of the room.  Although I was there for very serious reasons – the first steps to determine if I had breast cancer – I couldn’t help but see the humor in my current state of half-undress.  How lovely to be a woman indeed. 

The plus side was that this was the first time I was able to lay on my stomach since I was ten, the year my breasts came into bloom.  As a card holding member of the triple D club (can you imagine how big I was when I was pregnant), supine on my stomach is not a preferred position.  Quite frankly, there aren’t too many positions that are comfortable when your girls are as big as honeydew melons.  So, I couldn’t help but appreciate this new view on the world, even though it was only for 30 minutes.

I was curious about what was to come next.  Yes, my breast was easily accessible through the opening in the bed, but what next.  There it hung, heavy like a bag of sand, ready for the needle.  But it was moving.  I could feel it slowly swaying, like Poe’s pendulum.  Although it wasn’t sliding downward toward some poor prisoner’s neck, it was swinging none the less.  As you gals who are of a certain age and in the possession of natural breasts can attest, the mature breast has a life of its own and is not easily contained. 

I was a bit disappointed that I couldn’t see what was going on under the table.  My odd sense of curiosity made me wonder how far down my breast hung and what it looked like.  I mean us women usually only observe our breasts by looking down.  Other than performing monthly breast self-exams, I don’t make a practice of looking at them in a mirror if I can avoid it.   I don’t mean to body shame myself, but seriously who wants to look at them at my age.  Not a pretty sight.  But I was curious about its current state.  I knew it would sag, but how much and would the entire shape of the breast morph into something resembling a butternut squash (as I imagined).  This time I listened to my inner, cautionary voice, and did not ask the doctor.  I kept my mouth shut and wondered.

I did ask if my breast would be left hanging, however, and was assured by the doctor and the technician that my breast would be secured while the procedure was performed.  This would be accomplished by a mammogram machine.  How exciting!  Not only do I get to have a needle plunged into my breast, but I get to have it squashed and compressed to the thickness of a pita bread while it happens.  The only thing that could make this any better would be if they performed a cervical exam at the same time.  I bet Ann Margaret wasn’t thinking of this while twirling in her bedroom and dreaming of wearing lipstick and high heels.

So the breast was secured, local anesthesia was administered by a needle (not as bad as you imagine), and I waited.  The doctor and the technician spoke back and forth, giving each other coordinates, as if they were playing a game of Battleship.  X7, Y9, Z12. “You sank my battleship!” I wanted to yell.  This, I understood, was to calibrate the machine so that it could accurately pinpoint the location of the mass in my breast.

At some point the doctor told me to remain still and not to be startled by a loud sound.  Sure, I said, no problem.  But as you all know that’s like telling someone you are going to punch them in the face, at some point, but you’re not going to tell them when, and that they shouldn’t flinch.  Right, let me just relax.  I waited on pins and needles.  The next thing I felt was a puff of air.  I then heard a sound, like a pneumatic nail gun, almost as if a blow dart had been shot into my breast.  My breast was numb by this point but I felt a small amount of pressure and a warm and painless sensation throughout.  So far, so good, I thought.

The doctor talked me through the rest of the procedure, which consisted of the removal of some breast tissue and the few granules of unknown substance which was the cause of my current concern.  I could hear the suction, like a tiny vacuum cleaner for my bosom, as the doctor tinkered at my side.  And then, before I was even ready, it was over.  I was bandaged, my breast packed with ice, and I was sent on my way to wait the few days for my biopsy results.

   Am I worried? A little.  But at some point during this ordeal, I acquired a sense of calm and acceptance about my plight.  There are so many people so much worse off than me and I felt confident that this would not be beginning of my end.  I intend to go out with a blaze of glory ladies and a saggy, dangling breast will not be part of that story.

So while the ordeal was anything but sexy and alluring, and clearly far from the visions of womanhood celebrated by that famous song, it was lovely in a way.  While some may winch at my use of that word to describe a breast biopsy, I feel strongly that it applies.  Being a woman at any time in our existence, has never been easy.  Throughout history our sex has managed to build armies, conquer new lands, lead revolutions, guide nations, discover cures, feed the hungry and free slaves, all while managing to get dinner on the table by six o’clock.

What is lovely is that as women, we are capable of anything.  What is lovely is the comradery I felt with the female doctor and technician, their caring inquiries about how I was doing during the procedure and their kind laughter as I tried to lighten the mood and, perhaps, waylay some of my own discomfort.  What is lovely is that as women we can undergo pelvic exams and maintain our dignity.  That we can give birth in a room full of people or alone in the wild.  That we are not fazed by baby spit down our shirt.  That we move through our days with clinging toddlers attached to our hip.  That we think nothing of giving up that last piece of pie to our child (even when we are really, really, hungry and PMSing).  What is lovely is that we can do all this, and so much more, and still manage to keep it together. 

So while I was not looking forward to today, I can honestly say that my experience was lovely and I am a better person for having gone through it.  Surely, Miss Ann Margaret would agree.

Cherry Fruit Pies

            My birthday this year sucked.  I turned 51 this year.  No, not a landmark birthday like the prior year, but my birthday none the less.  If I am asked how I spent my birthday this year my response will not be blowing out birthday candles on a cake made for me.  It will not be starting my day being pampered with breakfast in bed.  It will not be opening fantastically thoughtful gifts from my loved ones.  The answer, as pathetic as it sounds, will be I spent it alone in my room eating Drake’s cherry fruit pies and sulking. 

            You know those pies.  Those pies that almost became extinct when Hostess Bakery, of Twinkie fame, went out of business a few years ago.  Each package contains two puffy pockets of delectable fruit filling, coated with a crackled coat of white sugar glaze.  The package is made of thin wax coated paper, emblazoned with an orange and blue logo and a “baker” duck mascot, perched happily in the corner, wooden spoon in hand.  It crinkles and crunches like fall leaves, making it impossible to open one discreetly.  But hell, if you are going down the road of enriched white flour and high fructose corn syrup you may as well own it.  No matter how carefully I try to open it, I cannot avoid that noise, its melody a siren call to my two dogs.

            Each package contains two pies, approximately four square inches.  Their surfaces gleam with a semi-transparent layer of glucose, their edges thick and crimped, their centers swollen and bulbous.  I suppose the logic behind two pies versus one large one is that you can have one now and save one for later.  That never happens.  

            I had such a bad day on my birthday.  A follow up to the shit fest that was my entire summer.  My husband’s gift to me consisted of an off handed comment, “Oh yeah, Happy Birthday, we don’t have any money so you aren’t getting a gift.”  Big deal, I’d probably have to buy it for myself anyway.  My son doesn’t even acknowledge my existence on a normal day, beyond reminding me how intrusive I am and how I’ve ruined his life.  My birthday has no significance to him.  My daughter, my one saving grace, slept in that day and didn’t even make me a homemade birthday card.  I was crestfallen and angry.

            So, as is my normal practice, I silently seethed and my blood boiled, but I said nothing.  I drank stale, leftover coffee because no one could be bothered to make me a pot of fresh coffee – I wasn’t going to do it, it was my birthday.  I hung two loads of laundry, laboriously lugging the hamper down the stairs – what better way to look like a victim.  I fed animals, made beds, washed dishes, vacuumed rugs.  You name it, I did it.  It was my birthday damn it, and I was going to show them.  This is what I do best: play the victim. 

            What can I say?  It’s kind of how I was raised.  I never felt empowered to say what I wanted.  I was never allowed to speak my mind.  I knew, even though it was unspoken, that to go against the norm (at least the norm in the household) was frowned upon, to say the least. 

            So here I sat, on my birthday, continuing old habits.  Not saying what I really felt.  Not saying that I wanted them to make a fuss over me, even a little bit.  Not saying that I was special, God damn it!  Instead, I wrapped myself in a blanket of unhappiness and the feeling of being unappreciated and I reveled in it!  After several hours of sulking around at home, I stormed out of the house and “ran away”, which is my code for speeding off in the car to go cry somewhere.  This, of course, did not elicit the response I wanted.  No, my husband, did not call after me to come home.  No, my son, was completely clueless that I was even gone.  I only managed to bring my poor daughter to tears, inflicting on her the kind of guilt I was bombarded with in my own youth.

            So, I came home.  Like a dog with my tale between my legs.  Home to my daughter.  Home to wipe off her tears.  Home to, hopefully, prevent her from the onus of guilt.  Home to do my job – to be a mother.  My daughter and I then spent the second half of my birthday like many other days, grocery shopping and running errands.

 It was during this mundane trip to the grocery store where I, upon turning a corner, came upon the Drake’s cherry fruit pies.  There they were, on the highest shelf, above the stacks of Twinkies and Ring Dings (clearly more popular), almost unnoticeable.  And I was transformed by their promise of salvation.  The possibility of their metamorphic power over me and my sadness.  Writing this makes me realize how pitiful that sounds – that food is the answer, the cure all for life’s woes.  But, as my current overweight status would tell you, that is what I know.  This is a habit that is hard to break and I am hoping that writing about incidents like this will help me have a healthier relationship with food.

So I took a box and I bought it.  It wasn’t even on sale, which is a major sin for me.  And later that night, after the dinner dishes were cleared and cleaned and the pillows on the sofa were properly fluffed and all the creatures I “mother” were down for the night and I was showered and in my pajamas, I sat on my bed in my room and I ate pie.  And for that short moment, alone with my thoughts and fears, cradling that sticky puff of sweetness in my hands, it was a happy birthday.