Spring birthdays in New England can be unpredictable. Some years, it’s turtleneck weather, and other years, it’s sandals season.
The night before my birthday, I slept well. I woke up to a sunny morning. Sandals it is.
I treasure my birthday. I know that as I get older, it gets harder and harder to carve out time for myself. My birthday is my one special day, so I try to find ways to make it special for me.
Besides the incredible thoughtfulness of my two little munchkins, my husband really outdid himself. After opening homemade cards from the kids and getting ready to face a day of fun with everyone, my husband handed me my birthday present.
I opened a slim envelope to find a watercolor portrait of my daughters and me. I was speechless and also breathless. Okay, and also a little bit teary.
For the rest of the day, I could not stop smiling. His thoughtfulness was stunning. And the portrait was stunning–it was sweet, adorable, and spot on. He worked with an amazing artist (a friend of a local friend) and captured exactly how I feel on the inside every day.
I spent some time at the girls’ school, celebrating Shabbat and then reading a story to big sister’s class. And then I treated myself to a first of the season rhubarb muffin and a mocha before yoga. We ate dinner outside. My husband baked me a cake.
Being thirty-six is truly awesome. I just don’t think about the number, though I say it often, I repeat: I cannot complain. Life is too good to waste time complaining. I have this Edith Wharton quote that I clipped from a magazine ages ago and I carry it with me to help me keep that very perspective:
“In spite of illness, in spite even of the archenemy sorrow, one can remain alive long past the usual date of disintegration if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity, interested in big things, and happy in small ways.” (A Backward Glance)
Yes, yes, yes, and yes. Happy birthday to me.