Birthday Girl

The Rainforest Café has little to recommend it, unless you dig bland, greasy, fattening, sugar-filled food. The atmosphere stinks too: it’s loud, with frequent claps of thunder and screeches of monkeys and roars of elephants, and the din of the diners rises with each successive outburst, as if everything bumps up a notch each time; it’s dark, too, except for the frequent flickers of the lights to simulate lightning.

Still, my daughter always suggests this place for her family birthday celebration. (It was her second choice this year, as she recently developed a taste for The Prime Rib, one of Baltimore’s best and most expensive restaurants; that’s my girl.) I suppose if you’re a kid, there’s nothing like having a 12-inch-high, sparkler-centered brownie and ice cream pyramid delivered to your seat by clapping, uniformed servers, all chanting, “VOL-CAY-NOOOOOO” slightly off, as if this were a row-your-boat round. The big colorful fish in multiple tanks throughout the restaurant are pretty groovy, too. And the robotic-but-lifelike gorillas and elephants and birds. And the sky-painted ceilings with tiny lights inside that look just like stars, just behind random canopies of leaves; it’s a jungle in there, after all.

Oh, heck. I have to admit that even though it gives me a headache and a stomachache (if I even eat my food), it’s fun to wander around and look. At least the first time you go.

Our visit this time wasn’t any more significant. By that I mean this birthday wasn't a milestone, like the mom-hating, puberty age of twelve or the not-quite-adult (and not-quite-sweet) age of sixteen. Nine is no big deal. She is tall and smart and beautiful, a little more of everything than last birthday. She got her ears pierced at eight, joined the basketball team, entered third grade. She learned when it’s OK to call her mom “beyotch.” She learned to dive and throw the Frisbee like a pro.

When we got home from dinner, Serena wanted to watch one of her favorite movies on The Disney Channel, The Parent Trap. But it was on until 11, and we were tired, and she’s seen it a dozen times. So we said no.

There is no reasoning with a child about television on her birthday, even when she has just brought home a booty of skull mask, skull paperweight, Connect Four, iPod Nano in bright, gleaming turquoise, and leftover brownie. Yes, iPod Nano, a gift from her Peepop. (My mother couldn’t be with us that night because she was sick.)

When the tantrum was over, and my husband and I were lying in our bed, our daughter came in with a hand-written note: “Sorry I am a bitch. I wouldn’t blame you if you want me to hit the road.”

My daughter should not have a single self-esteem issue. She is regularly shown and told how much we love her. We tell her how smart she is, and we exercise her mind and body regularly so that she will feel good about herself. She mostly does. But she’s just like her mother, prone to these random hormonal pity parties. I’m sure other kids do it, too, but it seems right to blame myself. It’s my M.O., my M.O.M.

Her birthday present from us was a new computer station to replace the flip-top, one-piece desk and bench we got from Target when she was about four. Now she has this gorgeous Ikea desk, and we moved her computer from the attic to her room. It’s a wicked cool setup, especially with the new monitor and the Jolly Roger flag.

But this morning, her old desk, sticker covered and falling apart, was shining by the side of the house, soaked with rain. My husband told me how sad it made him to see it out there, all alone. We reminisced about her countless hours next to me in the dining room coloring and writing letters and drawing pictures.

Now she’s alternately walking around the house listening to Oingo Boingo on her iPod and writing amazing stories. The other day, Serena wrote a terrific one in which she talked about the best baseball player in all of “kid-kind.” She made that up because “kid-dom” was taken. She has nearly thirty files documenting her stories and her game inventions.

I love every phase of her, every stage, every trial.

I miss the little marker-covered urchin who sat at the little wooden desk. But I so look forward to whatever nine brings.