***I wrote this post on my birthday…but was too busy partying to post it.
Today is my birthday.
My wonderful husband has gone to great lengths planning out the most perfect day(s) for me. So far, he has succeeded. It even started yesterday.
After a morning workout and coffee playdate (code for mom date), we dropped the babies off with my in laws and took off for a day of shopping and coffee. I picked out a present. We headed to my favorite downtown on Earth, checked in to a hotel, enjoyed the view, ate steak at my favorite local joint, sipped coffee, licked a dessert plate clean from the ganache that spelled out Happy Birthday, walked among the city dwellers enjoying our town, and conversation (a novelty when you have littles).
This morning, we strolled in the fog to get breakfast…me pretending amidst the sky scrapers that I lived in NYC (a weird Felicity-like daydream I always go back to), and now here I am, basking in my thoughts and coffee, awaiting a massage in one hour. My husband knows how to pamper me on my big day.
(UPDATE: I later returned home to the smells of my favorite comfort food and a carefully crafted surprise party…a la the best husband ever!)
I joked with a friend last week that although I love my birthday, that it’s had a history of leaving me wanting.
On the day before my 30th, in an attempt to not be driving on my birthday, we set off in a snow storm to see my parents in the Midwest. Somewhere in the hills of Northwestern Arkansas, after sitting on stalemated bridges for too long, we gave up and got a hotel room for the night. While grabbing dog food at a Walmart, my Beagle FREAKED out in the car. It went like this:
Us: Toby, come on. Shut up.
Toby: Pant pant, cry cry…
Us: Toby, you can’t ride in the front…get back. Toby…stop.
Toby: Pant pant freak out freak out….FARRRRRRRRTTTTTTTT. SQUIIIIIRRRRRRRTTTTTT.
And like that, hours before my 30th, there I was in the snow, wrangling two dogs, laughter to the point of breathlessness, while my Tall guy cleaned up Beagle diarrhea from the crevises of the car door. (I told Toby that entire pan of Chocolate Chip Oatmeal cookies he stole off my counter the day before would eventually bite him in the butt…).
On my 23rd birthday, I was new in town…and just my mama and dad and aunt even remembered my birthday. I watched Mystic Pizza alone in my apartment.
There have been good and bad birthdays…and people always will say, “It’s just a day.”
To that I say, NO!
Having labored for my babies now, it is never just a day. Ever.
I think so many of us have forgotten to celebrate. Life is a miracle and it is fleeting.
35 years ago, right in this very moment (as I’m looking at my clock) my mom birthed me into the world. And from that point on, she sacrificed all of her pre-kid freedom…for me. Because she loved me so.
In our family, we do birthdays big. They are tailor made. Some of us like birthdays loud and raucous, with lots of family and even more food. Some like them quiet and simple, with coffee and chocolate, some family, and then some private contemplation. My little girl likes her birthday to be bouncy and full of pizza. Regardless-we CELEBRATE birth days.
Birthdays are the day we say THANK YOU…thanks to moms and dads for choosing to extend themselves in parenthood. Thanks to God for giving us a chance to make a mark on the world…hopefully a good one, hopefully one that makes others say, “I want to know God, too.” Thanks to friends and family for trudging through it with us…good and bad.
It’s a day to celebrate friendship, growth, another year, tears, triumphs, set backs, FOOD, all of it….
It’s a good day for a birthday.