R.S.V.P.

Yesterday, September sixteenth, was my daughter Natasha’s birthday.

Thirty-seven years ago, she made her entrance and my life changed forever.

All you parents know what I’m talking about.

I- the most reluctant of would-be participants in the reproduction game- had been talked into this joint venture by my husband.

And I had just spent nine months on a drunk-sick cruise.  (I didn’t glow. I just felt ghastly throughout.  It’s a trait I share with Kate Middleton.)

I had never even touched a baby.

Or wanted to.

All I liked were dogs.

(In fact, when I told my dog groomer about the baby’s impending arrival, he asked me, “What are you going to name it? Spot?”)

But nevertheless, when the nurse handed me this tightly-wrapped precious bundle, I took one look and I was her slave.

Just consider for a moment how much you like your kids.

Same thing.

Every September sixteenth from then on became a special date for me.

On her first birthday, I threw a pink, rose-laden bash to celebrate. Held in our back yard in Winnetka, it was filled with friends, champagne and done up to the nines.  This was a grown-up party.

Here’s the birthday girl.

(You can’t see it but she’s wearing a tiny corsage.  I still have it.)

Here’s her fête.

And for the next twelve years, I threw little girl birthday party after birthday party.

There were Crayola-themed ones and balloon-themed ones. There were clowns and traveling petting zoos.

When the guests got older, I had fortune tellers and magicians.

There were slumber parties and splash parties.

Here’s a party for birthday number twelve at Ron Of Japan.  (I know.  I know.  Your clothes smell like smoke and teriyaki sauce for a week afterwards.  What can I say?  Kids love it.)

(Astute readers might recognize some of the other guests.)

And here’s the “grown up ladies luncheon” we threw in 1991 for her thirteenth birthday.

(The usual suspects but now even more grown up.)

It was at our club, and all her friends- and a few select grownups- were invited for chopped salads and finger sandwiches. Later, a very sweet lady did our hand-writing analyses.

A good time was had by all.

Especially me.

But little did I know…

That was the very last birthday party- or birthday for that matter- that I ever spent with Natasha.

The next September sixteenth found her just starting school at SG.

And for the next umpteen years- attending Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut, training as a teacher at Beauvoir at National Cathedral School in D.C., grad school at Boston College, and then finally teaching her own classes of kindergardeners and first graders- it was always the same old story.

School had just begun and Natasha was slammed.  An official Parent Visit the first weekend in October was usually scheduled.

Could we just come out then?

In 2014 things finally changed.

Due to the arrival of my grandson Sam, it was the first time ever that Natasha did not start a new school year in September.

I was busting to hang out with Sam.

So the first weekend in September, out to Boston I flew.

Yes, I missed her birthday by ten days but I didn’t want to horn in on their celebration as a brand new nuclear family.

Living in a different city I miss lots of things.  But this year I am determined to throw Natasha a (fantasy) birthday party.

You’re all invited.  And please, no gifts.  Your good wishes will be more than enough.

Happy birthday, my darling daughter.

And many, many more.

With all love from your devoted mother.

(I know you’ll like your party venue.)

Press play.