Yes, I am a grown woman who is still quite precious about her birthday. When my employment came with the benefit of days off, that was the day I took every year, without question. It didn’t matter if I stayed at home, curled up with a book and kitties, or my friends lured me out for dinner and random hijinks. I claimed my birthday as my day.
(For perspective, my boss kept pointing out how I rarely used vacation days. He also kept suggesting mental health days. I could go for one of those now.)
As a mom, clearly I share my summer days with the tiny humans I made. I miss my own mom, who honestly went through quite a bit to bring me into the world. I may joke about having the shoulders of a very short linebacker, but that proved less of a joke during the birthing process. But here I am and my mother may have forgiven me. I can’t exactly ask for reassurance from her at the moment, but I continue to forgive my little loves tor denying me sleep, so maybe…
Back to me being precious. I declared my day of celebration as mine this year by deciding how my three loves could entertain me. Fortunately, they let me drop off to sleep before my actual birthday started. My body made sure I woke up multiple times before the sun rose, but that is just part of the joy of celebrating so many birthdays.
When I was finally ready to start celebrating me, I got to do so by waiting for the opportunity to wash off birthday eve and start with a clean slate. At least someone got to leisurely do as they pleased on my birthday morning.
I made my own breakfast. I made my own cake.
My email gifted me laughs with an invitation to join a relationship coaching academy. My constant assertions that I should have committed to being a hobbit hermit don’t stem from a deep-seated love for damp, moldy-smelling caves with spiders nesting in my hair while I sleep. I mean, I wouldn’t rule it out, but I am sure the spiders and I would annoy each other eventually. In other words, no one really wants me as a relationship coach though I can tell you some things that definitely don’t work.
Real life gifted better. One tiny love presented me with a tiny, squishable Grogu. The other selected a necklace that declares “I heart you”. A friend released a new book for me to read on my kindle. My bonus parents found a replacement for one of my ruined books. The tallest love presented me with a cozy shirt pointing back toward our first meeting. Then he played chauffeur for the rest of my demands for the day. I selected matching earrings and a necklace featuring lovely butterflies (anyone know why that is important?) with red flowers and what appears to be a nod to mother-of-pearl.
Then we went to the Cheesecake Factory for my birthday lunch. Usually, our service there is stellar. In fact, we had a waiter who has provided such service in the past. Yet somehow, my birthday brought on its own luckless abandon. We placed our orders. No problem. Beverages and delicious bread arrived. No problems. We placed our orders. Still good.
Then the food began to arrive. They brought one child’s meal and my husband’s meal. Another wave of servers came toward us. They delivered plates to people who ordered after us. Some time elapsed while my husband stared at his hamburger morosely as he waited for my food to arrive. At last, our final food got carried to our table. Almost. My dressing, as I ordered it on the side, got lost in translation. My husband tucked happily into his burger. I requested my dressing. Waiting resumed.
I finally got to eat my salad when most of the other food had already disappeared from plates. But that’s okay because after cleaning my plate, it was time to order dessert. I had decided I wanted the Very Cherry Ghirardelli® Chocolate Cheesecake. Delicious and sharable with my picky children. I was informed that this flavor has been discontinued. Then the waiter disappeared.
My body, which I may have mentioned is cranky and old, demanded I make my way to the bathroom. I informed my husband of this and he made it clear I needed to stay put until the waiter returned to take my dessert order. I couldn’t give an accurate accounting of how long his return took, since I was uncomfortable. I eventually had to flag him down. I ordered the pecan turtle cheesecake. I wasn’t thinking clearly. This was not sharable. I tried. Complaints were lodged. Repeatedly as I tried.
I enjoyed my cheesecake as much as one can with such grumbling. Then we moved on to our next adventure. A few years ago, both of my tiny loves scored new friends at Build-A-Bear for my birthday. We got some gift cards for future use. I decided that it was time to make my own friend. It was pointed out to me that a sale meant one could get two stuffies with only an extra $15. I think the idea was to repeat letting the littles each get a friend. I got exasperated sighs when I suggested the children each pick a sale eligible friend and I would get whatever inspired my little heart. Twice.
My little heart wanted two kitties. My little ones selected a cat and a dog that had coloring inspired by ice cream. We somehow kept the overhead, after gift cards, small. We took our friends home for snuggles and the hope of more cake.
I assure you there was more cake. Layers and layers of lovely cake. I posted a picture on substack. I may still be working my way through said cake, slowly, and with massive amounts of sharing because this cake was impressively large as my cakestrosities must be to celebrate my birth properly.
Anyway, I rounded out the day in bed with my tiniest angel because her “heart hurt”. I keep telling her I will hug and kiss her without subterfuge, so I spent the night worrying.
Gifts continue to trickle through though. Much like the cake, they bring back the joy of getting older. Two friends let me love on their kitties. Few images bring the joy of a chubby orange tabby bounding down the stairs to see you or tiny Siamese kittens trying to steal the toe beans of your youngest child (also on the stairs--maybe I need more stairs in my life?) Another friend treated my children and I to lunch at my favorite Queen. Well, not my absolute favorite. This one didn’t feature an Eskimo girl or a view of my birthplace from the entrance. But it was delicious.
I guess I must take the good and the bad. Anyone else suddenly want to watch “The Fact of Life”?
