A tale of 2 notes

As I was going through photos yesterday to make the Macy retrospective, I found 2 notes that she has written me. One from several years ago, the other from last night or this morning, sneakily taped to my computer where she knew I would find it.

But before I get to that, I must share this:

At our house, we have always made a big deal out of birthdays, and after coming head-to-head with the cancer beast, they’re even more of a big deal.

It starts with frantic prep on my part, and while I’m not a procrastinator, I seem to be leaving more and more to the latter minutes these days. I’ve never been a “seat of my pants” kind of girl, and this existence troubles me. But time marches on, birthdays don’t wait, and expectations are high.

The kids get a special breakfast on their special day, eaten on their special plates. As the Church Lady from vintage Saturday Night Live would say, “Isn’t that special?”

Don’t barf yet, it’s not all Martha Stewart here. The muffins were from a mix (although I did add fresh blueberries and a dusting of cinnamon sugar on top. Take that, Martha!)

Along with the special breakfast, the birthday boy/girl gets to choose dinner. As much as I complain about my kids not eating my home cooking (what in tarnation is wrong with them??? There’s never been a plate of liver & onions in front of them, so I don’t know why they balk), I  must be doing something right because Macy wanted dinner at home.

I was really hoping for Benihana.

But no, she wanted a home-cooked meal of…potatoes. All potatoes, all the time.

We had mashed (yukon golds), twice baked (russets with sour cream, cheddar & chives), and potato salad (more yukon golds). And roasted broccoli. 

Yes, she loves potatoes. And yes, she would be perfect for the potato commissioner job they’re trying to fill in Idaho. But for now, she’s at my kitchen table, eating her fill in potatoes. Bless her carby little heart.

(And yes, that is her gum on the plate. Gross, but so Macy.)

Here’s the reigning potato queen, and yes that’s a can of Coke at her side. My mother is spitting nails right now, if they have nails and one can still spit in Heaven. That was never allowed at her table, but times have changed, and we weren’t having birthday cake, by order of the birthday girl. I guess no one has figured out how to bake a cake from potatoes yet, or else we would have had that. Maybe two. With potato frosting.

So this brings us to the notes. I found this one when I was looking at all the vintage Macy stuff and am kicking myself for not recording the date and her age. Based on the writing and spelling, I suspect preschool (I need to learn how the archaeologists figure out hieroglyphics; that would help).  

Allow me to translate: Dear Mom, I hope your life is good. Love, Macy

If that doesn’t warm your heart, there’s no hope for you and you’re completely on your own here.

For the second note, I don’t think I need to translate. Her handwriting is marginally better, and Dan Quayle would approve her spelling.