"Love is a gift. You can’t buy it, you can’t find it, someone has to give it to you. Learn to be receptive of that gift.” – Kurt Langer
I mailed the packages today.
Two of them.
One had to go by itself due to the contents. A women in the post office commented on my creative packaging. I had purchased stickers that had various happy birthday, party, celebrate type sayings on them. The box was mildly colorful, kinda like graffiti.
I thanked her for her compliment and schmoozed a bit with my postal guy. He is nothing great. Not looking anyway. Kinda rough. Bearded, short, scruffy. But he is always friendly and flirts with me. Who couldn’t use a bit of flirting at 8 am in the morning? Its better than morning caffiene.
We completed our transaction; I checked my PO Box and headed off to work.
I felt deflated.
I remembered back to last year when I got to mail her first birthday present. I was frolicking. I think I heard birds sing. Butterflies and fairies scampered about me. I am quite certain Bambi and Thumper crossed my path.
Not this year. This year it was different. I felt sad. Deflated really is the only word I can come up with it.
I spend weeks shopping, collecting her gifts. I plan a theme. I get special paper from PaperChase or Kates Paperie. Hand made wrapping paper, hand dipped, whatever. Its just cool. I color coordinate cards. I make special laser inscribed CDs. I put a lot into it and I enjoy it greatly it. I smile and snicker and ponder what she will think when she opens the stuff. Will she like it? Will she hate it? Will she thank me or ignore me?
Having the gift items in my house, knowing they will eventually go to her, is like having a piece of her here. Hard to explain. Probably doesn’t make sense. But that’s how it feels.
But to see it go, to send it away, well, it’s a bit triggering you know? I know its not her. I know its presents and its going to her. But it just feels so odd. To purchase and present gifts to someone but not to them personally rather to the scruffy dude at the USPS.
So terribly strange to send your child presents but not be able to see her open them. Not to know if she likes them, giggle with glee at the sight of them or sigh with disgust. Its odd to know where you baby is but not to be able to celebrate a big birthday – any birthday – with her. To never have sang her an awful version of “Happy Birthday”. To never see her purse her lips, make a wish and blow out cake candles. I don’t know what kind of cake she likes – IF she likes cake. My favorite is Angel Food. I wonder what hers is?
Its very strange.
I miss the package. I miss the collecting, the shopping, the preparing. It saddnes me.
I suppose what I miss most of all is that all the build up leads to me dumping the package with the scruffy dude at the post office and not in her hands.