I really enjoy my birthday, and just like Christmas Day, I’m sad to see it end.
The best part is that my husband takes the day off just to play with me, offering himself to whatever I conjure. Even ice skating. Sometimes a day trip. Often Christmas shopping. Always an indulgent meal.
I remember the first birthday that I celebrated after my mother died. I turned 37 that year. I woke up and wanted to be alone.
I left before the boys were up, and missed the coffee cake that the neighbors brought to share.
I was up before dawn this morning too, and apparently left behind some of the facial mask I had applied–a dark crusty clay–circling my right nostril–which I didn’t notice until after we went out to breakfast. (Though apparently, my husband noticed it and didn’t think to say anything.)
Without thinking, I did the unthinkable. I licked my thumb and scrubbed. And then I smiled. “Hi Mom.”
My mother was the one to wipe spit across our faces when we were young, particularly on special occasions. I found it revolting, and I made sure I never did it to my kids.
It almost always snows on my birthday, no matter where I live, but not today, except, I hear, on the beach where I was born.