I love birthdays. Maybe I should clarify. I love my birthday. I am one of those adults that never grew out of birthdays being a big deal. My parents didn't throw over-the-top parties or buy me a European car before I was even 16 (thank you MTV's My Super Sweet 16 for giving me completely realistic expectations), but they made it fun.
Now, having said that. Having a summer birthday causes you to lose some lack-luster. Having your birthday around a major holiday - well - people have plans. And my dear husband, for all his gifts, cannot plan a birthday to save his life. He simply cannot. This has been his plight since we were dating. I have tried to help him. I tell him, "I would like XX, so call XX, and you have to do it by XX because they'll be booked." Nope. Nada. Doesn't happen. For the last few years, I've essentially planned my entire celebration myself. Which is fine, because eventually it will be so expensive that he will in fact plan something. But then, this year y'all — kids.
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If I had to boil it all down to one word? Temporary. The placement, interruptions, giggles, nightmares, school lunches, seemingly never-ending parade of people and appointments. It's all heartbreakingly...temporary.
It is never far from my mind that while I'm doing the best I can in my mother role while I can, there is another mom not so far away who is wondering what her kids are up to, how they are, and if they are happy. I also know that not so long from now, I will be that mom; sitting alone on the stairs listening to the silence, longing for screams of laughter or the sounds of games emanating from the playroom. My mind will swirl with thoughts of the kiddos who were the first to call me "mom," and I'll wonder if they are safe—and unfortunately, there will be no answer—because my mom title is temporary. |
AuthorWriting is really my outlet, so you'll mostly see my prose on here. But William might occasionally make a guest appearance. Archives
May 2021
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