I’m waiting. Cursor blinking. Bated breath.
For the epiphany.
The flash of insight that will make this birthday somehow mean more, and less, than I expected.
We’re none of us really grown up on the inside. Being comfortable in your own skin is the best gift of all. These aren’t wrinkles around my eyes, they’re laugh lines, and that makes all the difference. Age is only a meaningless number (also insert ‘weight‘ and ‘income‘ as needed).
Yada, yada, yada… heard it before. Said it before. Sometimes I even mean it.
I’ve always approached birthdays, milestones especially, with intention. That same personality quirk that compels me to contemplate my life and think deep thoughts and talk about it ad naseum to all the world (INFJ). Shouldn’t forty be the same?
I wanted revelation, existential understanding, spiritual discovery… instead I’m slogging through the mire. Literally. The raccoons got in the garbage again last night. B has a viral infection, so there has been plenty of vomit and now the other… I’ve just started yet another load of laundry. After a day and night in hospital the backlog of grimy dishes seems overwhelming. The floor is sticky where I spilled a syringe of morning meds. What clean clothes we have are impressively wrinkled after a week in various baskets.
If that’s not enough to make me cry, our weekend plans, for Glen and I t0 spend two glorious days and a night at Harrison Hot Springs – without kids, are postponed indefinitely. B is home from the hospital on a pass, but we’re expected back this afternoon. She’s too sick to leave right now.
Except, I don’t feel any need to cry. I really thought I would. My life is somewhat of a shit show these days. I’m tired and feel older than my years. I’m in the worst shape of my life and beyond sleep deprived. None of my plans are working out. None. My life is not my own.
They take pieces of me, these ones that I love. Carving away my time and energy… slice after needy slice. Sometimes I feel like there’s nothing left. Fifteen years of non-stop diapers and accidents and cleaning up someone else’s crap. The worry and the hassles and driving, driving, driving.
*break. I had her tucked up into my bed while I washed the sheets from her own. Now I have yet another load of laundry to do. She’s cleaned up again, but broken hearted that Team Umizoomi is gone from Netflix. She just doesn’t understand. How could you do this to us Netflix? Why? WHY?
Back to my Reason-I’m-Not-Crying-Today. It’s not because I’m some kind of saint. Or ‘so strong’ as some people suggest, which is always embarrassing because I feel like I should explain how ridiculous it is so as not to feel like a phony. Marriage and parenting has made my ability to be petty and selfish and extremely, extremely whiny abundantly clear (see above for proof). Frankly, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with crying when life is hard. It’s a healthy and necessary reaction. And there will be crying at some point. I have no doubt of that.
But right now. Right now, I’m happy. This is a happy birthday.
It has nothing to do with being forty and wise. Or having reached my goals. Or having any thing at all.
My life is not my own. But those I share it with, share their lives with me too.
This morning they tried to let me sleep in. Twice the boy snuck away and tried to climb into bed with me. “I missed you so much Mommy” he’d yell (the inside voice/outside voice lesson isn’t really sticking). When it was time, he snuggled up beside me, then on top of me, then kissed what parts of my face he could reach. His gift: that I am his favourite person in the world and I will never run out of hugs and kisses.
B made a unique and sparkly necklace at school. She likes to point out every single colour of every single bead over and over again. She’s absolutely tickled that I wore it today. Every once in awhile today she gasps and says “happy birthday Mama!” – each time as if she’s realizing for the first time and is blown away by the magic of it. I know from experience that this will carry on for several months. Her gift: that I am celebrated with genuine enthusiasm, that everything I do matters and I will never, never go out of style.
My teens made me beautiful gifts also. The kind of art that I appreciate for its own sake, as they have grown in creativity. From L, a painting that represents each family member, symbols we’ve talked about before. From C, a beautiful and insightful sketch of her sister – putting her fight with cancer, her imagination and her dreams of the future all into one image. From both, a ‘flower’ arrangement made out of my favourite candy. Their gift: that I am heard, that I am a small part of the people they’re becoming and the ways in which they’ll make the world better.
My husband gave me a gift that was a true surprise. It’ll cost him more in worry and stress than in funds. He remembered my futile (I thought) longing to try para-gliding and has put the plan into motion. His gift: that I am known and understood, that there are always adventures ahead and someone who’ll hold my purse for me.
What’s more, I have birthday wishes from amazing family/friends and virtual strangers and everyone in between.
As I sat down to write this, a friend texted me a picture – she had her baby. Today! A sweet, tiny little human, with her whole life ahead of her.
Baby girl – you can count your age in hours, while I have forty whole years under my belt, but we have a lot in common. All the stuff that really matters.
It’s terribly hard work being born. And sometimes, it’s terribly hard work living life. But we are surrounded by people who love us fiercely. We have a world of opportunities ahead of us. There are so many things to learn and experience; mistakes to be made, for sure, but masterpieces to create and friendships to build as well.
Old people like me make it all so horribly complicated. It doesn’t need to be… Love. Be loved. Enjoy a nap when you can.
There’s a chill in the air, the first taste of winter, and it’s raining outside. It’s a good day to be alive. It’s a good day because we’re alive.