Yesterday, it was 61 degrees and sunny.
Breakfast with Dan, Kate, and Michael was blissfully uneventful. Until I spilled Dan’s to-go cup of coffee in the parking lot. (Sorry about that, babe.)
Kate received a glowing evaluation from her pre-k teacher. My favorite line: “I know you liked the Catholic program she was in, and I’m sorry it closed, but I’m so glad I have had the chance to teach her.” Kate is a bright, cheerful, enthusiastic child, which of course I know, and I was pleased beyond words to know that she is thriving and that her behavior in school is excellent.
Lunch with Flora was just as fun. We each ate our sandwiches and shared dried mangos; she showed me around her classroom, and was cheerful and chatty. She, too, is clearly thriving in school, and I couldn’t be more pleased with the Catholic school community our family is part of.
I decided not to shop, although I ran a couple of relaxing errands. (When you have time to run errands, they are relaxing! Who knew?) I had a beer at Bocktown around 3 p.m., and read the Stephen King book I got for Christmas. I went home, and made TWO dinners — one for tomorrow night. That seldom happens.
And I got message after message wishing me a happy birthday (including calls from my two best friends, my ILs, and my dad).
Say what you will about the Internet and social media the rest of the year: parenting wars, high school pettiness, yadda, yadda, yadda. On my birthday, it made me feel warm and fuzzy. I know that writing on a Facebook wall isn’t sending a card in the mail (where would they put the check?), but it’s still 10 seconds out of someone’s day to think about someone else and wish them a happy day.
I know it’s not cool to like your birthday. It’s especially not cool because I’m “of a certain age”, and a woman to boot, but you know what? I still like my birthday. Yesterday was just delightful. I am ridiculously blessed.
My dad called when I was in the grocery store buying my birthday cake. As we were hanging up he said, “You keep getting older. That’s your job.” And he’s got a point. I want to keep having birthdays. I want to raise my kids, and have adventures, and explore new things, and learn something every day. I can’t do that if I stop having birthdays. And when I’m 91, or 101, or 121 (medical science makes advances daily!), I hope I can embrace my birthday with the same level of joy as I have for most of my life.
And, you know, eat some cake.