I admit it: I like a big fuss on my birthday. I would blame my parents for this – the ones who once found a sign at a Lee Jeans store that declared “It’s Lee Week!” and hung it up on my birthday every year – but I’ve only fairly recently stopped myself from telling everyone I run into that it’s an important day.
Rob, having now spent 13 birthdays with me, knows this well, so had spent a good deal of time in preparation for today. He gave up going to the gym so I could start off the day with a run (two miles, sluggishly) while he and Harper baked a cake. Then we had an unintentional birthday treat with at trip to the doctor where we heard the baby’s heartbeat, thumping away at 162 beats per minute.
When I got to church, I was tickled to find a bag of peanut m&ms sitting outside my office, from an anonymous well-wisher who was apparently paying attention during my sermon on temptation a couple weeks ago. Then, one of the office volunteers brought in a cake – chocolate, with chocolate icing; these folks have come to know me well. After work, Rob came home with Indian food, which I got to eat in my blue sweatpants, the only pants that still comfortably fit. Then there were thoughtful presents from faraway family and several phone calls, and I didn’t have to do any of the dishes.
Later, with her mouth full of cake and ice cream, Harper declared, “Birthdays are so much fun!” Indeed.
All in all, a very good day.
Okay, thirty-four, bring it on. I’m ready for you.