My Breakfast at Tiffany's

Somewhere in a dark corner of my closet, tucked in a small sky-blue suede bag, is a pair of sterling silver earrings that I’ve hardly worn but keep as a souvenir of the time I learned that the finer luxuries of life are not worth nearly as much as I thought. Instead of being a piece of finery, this pair of earrings is a piece of humility, and for this I treasure them. Over the years, when I’ve come across them, held them momentarily in my hand, the only thing I can do is shake my head and chuckle.

Way back in the day, when my husband Bill and I lived in Brooklyn, NY, we were pregnant with our second son and coming up on my second Mother’s Day. Our first son Quinn was a little over a year old, so life was busy and happy and starting to rev up with the prospects of a growing family. Because I was still so new to identifying as a mom, Mother’s Day in my mind was still more about my own mom than about me. Plus, there really wasn’t anyone who could shower me with thankful love at that point. My son was too busy learning to walk and master the spoon.

At the same time, a separate development was happening down near Washington DC with my youngest sister. She had been dating this fellow Mark and things were really starting to take off between them. It was starting to look like he might be ‘the one’. As it turned out, he was the one and has been my impossibly cheerful, beloved brother-in-law for decades now.

Back then, as their courtship started to develop so did his special gifts to my sister to commemorate things like their first year together, her birthday, eventually their engagement, and so on. Reports of these exciting and deluxe gifts circulated around my family. They were beautiful, fancy, often from Tiffany’s no less. I was genuinely happy for my sister, but I’d get off the phone with my mom after hearing about one of these romantic exchanges and look around at my humdrum apartment. The stack of diapers and drying rack of dishes would sit there lazily and wink at me. We’re deluxe too, lovey.

Now, let it be known, one of the reasons I married my husband was because of his very low maintenance requirements. Like any of us, he’s a complicated creature, but if I were to characterize him, I’d say one of his core values is economy, and that’s such a nice way to put it. Mostly, he doesn’t see the value in the purchase of superfluous, arbitrary items. This is a virtue, I know, and it was an ethos of his that rubbed off on me over the years, but at that time he understood it applied to gifts more than I did. Suffice it to say, he didn’t bring home gifts too often.

But I like the material casualness about Bill. It has made for a relaxed way of life together in those respects. I appreciate finery and beauty, but I feel more kinship with a homey vibe, and so having a husband who likes this too was a good idea.

And yet, the whole concept of couples exchanging gifts to commemorate each other started to grow on me. I knew it wasn’t the gift that I cared about, but the act of it, the thought. When word got around to me that some husbands gave their wives Mother’s Day gifts in the early years of motherhood, it was news to me, but it played perfectly into my burgeoning plan to instate a new gift-giving system in our home.

I was sure my husband knew nothing of such things, so I decided to prime the process with a little suggestive nudge.

“Honey, do you think maybe we should exchange gifts for Mother’s Day and Father’s Day? I heard it’s a thing.” I tried to sound nonchalant.

“Gifts? What for?” he said, flipping through the newspaper, hardly looking up.

“I don’t know. Maybe for later. It’d be like a little memory.”

“But I’m not your kid.”

That stopped me in my tracks. He had a good point, and I had no argument for it. So, with no better counter point to offer, that was as far as my new system got—not far. Bill got up to poke around the fridge. I sat there with no other ideas for how we’d get to a place where Bill was chivalrously bowing to me with a beautifully wrapped gift in his hands and I was speechlessly fanning my happy tears. Mother’s Day came and went, and life was as humdrum and unassuming as ever.

Then slowly I started to stew. At first it was a tiny irritation, and then it was a full-blown grouchy miff that ‘my husband never got me anything’. I was in a pout, I was. And I specifically recall sitting on our apartment’s front stoop when the brilliant idea popped into my head: if my husband wasn’t going to buy me a fancy gift, then I would do it myself. I would march myself right over to that Tiffany’s store and buy my own Mother’s Day present!

I planned it all out. I’d get Jordana our neighbor to babysit Quinn for three hours while I raced up to mid-town Manhattan and then raced back. I wasn’t used to leaving Quinn for so long, but three hours would give me a good hour or more to find just the perfect gift for me to ceremoniously give back to myself. (Here, Self. Oh thanks, Self!)

I’d never set foot inside Tiffany’s, but I knew where to find it. As soon as Quinn settled down for his morning nap I set into motion. I waved goodbye to Jordana then hustled up the street to the subway. The ride was long but soon I was weaving my way through the folks crowding off the train. I was as antsy as could be. The entire store of Tiffany’s was about to be my oyster. I was going to allow myself to buy anything my heart landed on. This was a historic day.

I climbed the subway stairs up to the street, got my bearings, and started marching [stomping] straight to Tiffany’s. Along the way I grabbed a bagel from a street vendor for a late breakfast. I got to the massive building that sits with great distinction on 5th Avenue in Manhattan. Its huge, windowed façade is grand and swanky. I took a deep breath. I’d been past it numerous times, but this was my first time inside as a customer. I paused in front of the big windows; the very ones Audrey Hepburn looked through in Breakfast At Tiffany’s. While I pretended to be Audrey, I gulped down my bagel and stepped inside.

The ceiling was tall as the stars, and the walls spread so far apart that it was a cavern of luxury. I got down to business since I was on a time limit, and I could see there was plenty to take in. I started to peruse. I didn’t have any idea what I’d get myself but very quickly I noticed that the items on this shelf and the next shelf and the next—they were all quite pricey. Like, quite. So, okay, no problem. I’d just go find the less expensive section of the store. We were young, with a second baby on the way. I didn’t want to break the bank here.

I made my way upstairs. I snooped around, up, and down. Things were even more expensive up there. The prices were beyond anything I was used to. I knew Tiffany’s was pricey, but for tiny items the cost was popping my eyes out. This was the point when my airtight plan burst a small hole.

I changed course. I decided to go back downstairs to look at the jewelry. Surely there’d be something there I could afford. Not real jewels, of course, but something fancy and affordable. I started to inch my way around the large circular display. The counter staff kept checking in with me, but I politely waved them away. At this point I didn’t know how to ask the one thing I needed to know: where precisely is the cheapest darn thing in this entire place?

The prices made the bagel start to gurgle in my stomach--my version of breakfast at Tiffany’s. I circled a second time. The truth was setting in. My plan was failing. But I stubbornly clung to the hope that I’d find some smidgen of an item as a protest against the fact that I’d been left out of all the extravagant showering of fanciness out there all over the place since the beginning of time. Supposedly.

And then they caught my eye (or their price tag did). I found the solitary item in the entire store I was willing to buy. It was a pair of sterling silver earrings, modern in design, a bit clunky, not quite my style. I even was able to convince myself that I really did like these earrings, which was helpful when I forked over the dough because I really didn’t.

I took the perky, glossy blue Tiffany’s shopping bag from the salesclerk and breezed my way out of the store. I clutched the bag close to my body for fear that I’d drop it or lose it or some such tragedy. I quickly beelined it home to get back to my son.

Once home, I took Quinn in my arms. He was the most exquisite finery I’d ever laid eyes on. “I missed you, buddy.” I gave a little kiss to his nose. I already knew I’d done a silly thing. My new earrings were a big bust. I didn’t really want a Mother’s Day gift even though I did a fine job convincing myself I did. I placed my face next to my son’s. This small human made my earrings start to pale. The thought of my hard-working, dedicated husband made them start to shrink. The two of us walked the earrings in their lovely blue suede bag to my bedroom and tossed them in a drawer.

Later, after my Tiffany earrings had found their way from jewelry box to storage box, I’d taken up singing Moon River to my toddlers as they drifted off to sleep. My youngest son loved this song. “Sing Moon River, Mommy,” he’d request in a tiny, muffled voice with his face half sunk into his pillow. I’d sing it and scratch his back. It’s the famous song from Breakfast At Tiffany’s. In the movie Audrey Hepburn’s character, Holly Golightly, is a country girl misdirecting her life in the big city. In the song, she sings about a huckleberry friend, which may be life itself, and which is what my kids and husband are to me, my huckleberry treasures.

Twenty-three years ago today, I became a mom. After all these years I’ve learned there are many ways we can celebrate and commemorate each other and even ourselves. I'm glad I discovered that marching oneself into Tiffany’s isn’t so effective a way. I understand, too, that for one person it's gifts, for another it's service, and another listening. There are as many ways to wrap up and give our love to others as there is love to give. What a celebration.

Be well, huckleberry friends.