I love my birthday. Really do. It usually occurs during Thanksgiving weekend. My mother said the doctor induced her labor so he could rush home and eat his turkey dinner. I was literally pushed out into the world.
I have become spoiled with some wonderful birthday traditions. I will stay in bed until my breakfast has arrived. Sometimes that’s 11 or noon – whenever my daughter decides to get up. My first breakfast in bed was 13 years ago when she was 5. She poured me a bowl of cheerios and came into my room….. and brought up 2 spoons. (Only later did I find out that much of the contents of the bowl were splashed on the stairs) She jumped on the bed and sat close to me and helped me enjoy breakfast. She, of course, lifted the bowl to get the last slurp in. After we finished she jumped off the bed and ran into her room returning with a small package (which was presented with more tape than wrapping paper ;o) Inside was an original, handmade macaroni necklace. “I love it!” I said as I gave her a big hug! She beamed! My birthday this year was no exception. I was awakened by the clinking of a full glass of orange juice on a delicious plate of homemade chocolate chip pancakes and scrambled eggs. The best part…..2 forks.
There is another custom I cherish – reading the birthday cards that my husband and father select for me. They both are quiet in nature and not very demonstrative in their show of affection – although I know they love me. Some cards I received from them have actually brought tears to my eyes. I know the words on the card were exactly the words both would tell me if they spoke in that manner (in the Hallmark manner…)…..but they both express their love for me with the words on the card. I truly believe there are different love languages and people show affection in many different ways. Last year for my wedding anniversary I gave my husband a goofy birthday card – with the words BIRTHDAY crossed off and ANNIVERSARY written in. Clearly, card giving is not my language of love.
I’m heading toward the end of my 40’s…..though I simply don’t feel as old as that number indicates. I’m mostly at peace with my age but the ages ending in zero (0) tend to produce anxiety in me. When I turned 40 my husband booked a weekend at the gorgeous Trump plaza in Miami – 5 star hotel right on the ocean. Our room was on the 39th floor – way up there – and 39 floors beneath our balcony was a glistening pool and a huge slab of concrete. Even though the place was serene and lovely, I felt out of sorts about my upcoming turn of the decade. As the weekend progressed I started panicking. My panic turned into a full blown anxiety attack. Before going to bed I had the dreadful thought that if I fell asleep in that room I would sleep walk, open the slider, and jump off the balcony plunging to my death. I told hubby about this and he was being gracious but I could tell he thought I was nuts. After tossing and turning I couldn’t sleep. I kept picturing myself skydiving off that stupid balcony. So around midnight I asked him to put all our luggage and chairs (and anything else movable) in front of the glass slider. That way if I was going to sleep walk and open the slider, all the luggage would fall over and he would wake up before I leaped. Pretty dreadful I know. I hope we go somewhere flat when I turn 50…..