49 Candles

Last week was my birthday.  Number 49.  Ever since my friend Marcelle told me that I was aging myself too fast by converting my age to dog years (it's 343,) I've decided to use a different animal this year:  the elephant. In elephant years, I'm only 28.8, which instantly makes me feel more youthful with a much better memory.

I hadn't been looking forward to this birthday.  It's not that I fear growing older; I don't.  My trepidation stemmed from knowing that I wasn't going to be able to celebrate my birthday in the typical way.  We've been extremely short of money lately and our situation wasn't going to improve any time soon.  I knew I'd be celebrating my birthday without any presents or even a dinner out.

This past year has been brutal in ways that surpass my usual complaints about gravity-succumbing body parts or fading memory.  I often think that it would be so much easier to give up, cry uncle, and pick up my marbles and go home.  The idea of welcoming my 49th year of life amid such circumstances didn't seem right or fair, but there it was.   It's reality, whether I like it or not.

After spending days entrenched in MEPE (the Most Epic Pity-party Ever,) I decided that what I wanted more than anything for my birthday was a day off from work.  The fact that I couldn't afford it (I'm paid hourly with no sick or vacation time) and therefore shouldn't do it entered my mind, but I promptly chased those thoughts out again.  I needed this day off.  My mental health needed this day off.  After all, anyone who's a parent knows that weekends are not days off but days ON, loaded with an overwhelming amount of duties and responsibilities.  I hadn't had a day off since Christmas, and we all know how un-relaxing that particular holiday can be.

So I scheduled my day off.  I asked my oldest son if he would wake up early and get his brothers on the school bus so that I could sleep in.  He agreed.  I'd been so short of sleep that if getting more of it was the only thing I received on my birthday, I'd be a happy mama. 

I woke up when I heard the school bus drive past my house.  Knowing that I didn't have to hurry to get dressed for work or feed anyone breakfast or lunch felt so liberating.  Time was my own for one entire day, and realizing this made me outrageously happy.

I poured a cup of coffee and drank it leisurely with Mewcifer the cat sitting on my lap.  I allowed him to stay for as long as he liked since there wasn't anywhere I had to be.  With my lap occupied by a cat, I figured I might as well dive into those books I'd been neglecting. 

Something is definitely out of balance with your life when reading a book feels like a vacation, but that's exactly what it felt like.  For once, I didn't have to worry about interruptions or a too-loud TV in the background.  Instead, I read contentedly amid the sound of chirping birds outside. 

A couple of hours later, I checked my email and my Facebook page.  Both were full of birthday greetings from friends. I felt loved and remembered.  It lifted my spirit to know that in spite of what life may throw my way, there are still plenty of people who care about me. 

The sounds of birdsong were suddenly interrupted by the telephone.  I didn't recognize the phone number so I didn't answer it figuring it was a phone solicitation or a political call and I did not want to deal with either of those on my birthday. 

The answering machine began recording, and I heard a young voice say, "Happy birthday, Mom."  It was my son Evan.  I grabbed the phone just in time to hear a whole crowd of people, his entire 6th grade class, singing happy birthday to me.  Evan had been concerned about my birthday and our lack of money.  I guess this was his way of making my day special.

The class finished singing and then I heard Evan say, "I love you, Mom."  Yes, my nearly 12-year-old actually told me he loves me right in front of his classmates.  With tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat, I managed to choke out a thank-you to all of them for making my birthday such a happy one.

No  better gift could be found in a store for any amount of money.

As I've grown older, I've learned that the tougher the times, the more readily we appreciate small kindnesses.  It's these little moments, all strung together in between the dark spots, that make a great life.  Years from now, I probably won't remember feeling so sorry for myself, but I do know I won't forget the birthday when my son's entire class sang to me.  And that memory alone will be enough.