My BDay is right around the corner …. so start shopping now.  You have less than six weeks left.  Over the years, I have gotten my fair share of BDay presents.   Some were the perfect compliment to me (both figuratively and literally).   Others were equally kooky and odd.  You know exactly what I’m talking about.  It’s the gift that forces a smile on your face while you are secretly thinking, “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?!?”   I take them all with much gratitude (and grain of salt) because both gifts inevitably came from my folks.

For years, my mom was under the illusion that I could squeeze my ample ass in to Size M underwear.  Every Xmas I’d think, “Has she lost her mind?”  She’s since wised up.  I know this because the size of my butt has become fodder at the dinner table.  (And for the record, I still have several pairs of too-small, unwrapped tightey-whitey undies if anyone wants them.)

My dad once bought me a Bowie knife.  You know, like Rambo would use.  I turned to my father and offered up thanks.  His comment, “I knew you wouldn’t have one of those.”  My retort, “Good thing you didn’t get me a giraffe.”  I have yet to use the Bowie knife, but it will come in handy once I decide to hack my way through a Bolivian rainforest.  Or perhaps gut a deer that tries to impale itself on my car.  Bowie knives are soooo multi-purpose.  Truly handy if I become a serial killer.

Hands-down, the best gift I ever received also came from my father.  I was an ill-tempered, snotty 21-year old.  And thought I knew everything.  I tolerated them.  They still loved me.  Such is the circle of life.  I knew something was up because my dad was borderline giddy on my BDay.  My Dad is never giddy … he’s pleasant … he’s affable … but never easily excited.  Case in point:  I told him I was going to shave my head once and dye the stubble blue.  He said, “Okay, but don’t be late for dinner or your mom will KILL you.”

My dad moseyed downstairs with a box encased in ancient wrapping paper.  The paper was so old and brittle, it had actually yellowed.  He beamed.  I rolled my eyes, but was still wildly intrigued.  Inside the shoebox was a newspaper from the day I was born, several “It’s a BOY!” cigars and an envelope.

(Grab your hankies now.)

Inside the envelope was a letter my dad had written to me several minutes after I was born on March 25, 1970.  It was written with such care and such love, that I immediately started choking up.  I was officially a complete wreck by the third paragraph.  By the end I was half-laughing, half-crying because the letter was an instant classic.  My dad had managed to be poignant while incorporating a lot of lame, cornball jokes into the letter.  Combine that with his notorious punctuation errors and it was a thing of beauty.

The letter summed up what I had always known.  My parents loved me from the minute I arrived.  And they were wildly proud of me.  And wanted nothing but the very best for me.  The handwriting was even a little shaky, like my dad couldn’t get the words out fast enough.  My parents had me later in life … so they were much older and wiser.  And my dad was wise enough to know not to give me that letter until I was old enough to appreciate it.  Things between my folks and I changed significantly after that.  I lightened up.  My mom started buying Size L boxer briefs.  And my dad really started to enjoy retirement.

At the end of the letter, my dad mentioned it was the best day of his life, so many possibilities were ahead.  So much excitement to be had.   I don’t think he knew how true that was.  The letter was practically a roadmap for me.   It made me want to be a better person.   And was, without a doubt, my best gift ever.