The Birthday Wrap-up

Last Saturday was my birthday; I turned thirty-six. There is a Southern thing, a woman thing, that we should not mention our age. I don’t mind sharing because, my belief, is that honesty is the best policy. Why be ashamed of something that is actually quite a feat? A hundred years ago it would’ve been an honor to have made it this far, still alive and not infirm. More than a hundred years ago? I might’ve been the village wise woman.

Or burned at the stake for being a witch.

You know, mileage varies.

The morning started on a high note. Nora rolled out of bed, the first words out of her mouth were, “Happy Birthday, Mama,” not an inquiry for Daddy or a demand for milk, for once, my kid’s first thoughts were for me. Absolutely brilliant way to start my day. There was nothing to be done but smile, hug my girl close, and put two feet on the ground.

My friend, Val, had sent flowers a day ahead and they were blooming in the living room; slowly opening bursts of color to greet me in the near dawn darkness. Adam brought me a fresh cup of coffee. Nora and I snuggled on the couch, talking about our dreams, while cartoons flickered on the screen in front of us, unwatched.

Adam and I joke because my birthday falls at the single worst time of the year for us. We’re always broke. Not tight, not stretched  - broke. We waited for this week’s paycheck with thirteen dollars in the bank and our fingers crossed. Meals have been....creative, to say the least, but they’ve been made with love. We dipped into My Secret Cash fund, which is less a “Secret” and more “Hidden.” I periodically swipe money from Adam’s pockets, hoard change, generally live like a miser so that when times like this happen, because they’re inevitable in this economy, we can pick up milk and diapers for Nora. To make that stash last, I made my own cleaners out of household items, but I’m not putting the recipes for that here because I don’t have that kind of blog. I Google for that kind of stuff, same as you.

Nora and Adam made me a cake together. She was so excited to help. We’d been talking about “Mama’s Cake” all week, even when I was trying to change the subject because I was afraid there wouldn’t be money for something as frivolous as cake.

“Mama get presents?”

“You’re my gift, Nora.”

Shaking her head at me, she said, “I not gift. I’m Nora.” (This is a big thing right now. Not a baby. Not a daughter. Not a Sweet Baboo. Nora. She’s into identity and I find it fascinating.)

Adam had baked Angel Food cake, because the box version only requires that you add water, but Nora insisted on icing. He’d given her a tube of cinnamon flavored icing to finish, having only used half to decorate the top of the cake. I couldn’t help but laugh. Nora was practically vibrating with sugar, but we just rolled with it. We sat around the downstairs coffee table and sang “Happy Birthday.” Nora helped blow out my candles. We ate our slices of cake, making small talk. Chatting with a toddler is limited, but funny, and I adore watching Adam trying to muddle through her kid brain. I’m used to the way her conversations flow; I can translate the bits she messes up.

After cake, Val came over to spend time with me. We caught up and crocheted together. I’m certainly blessed to have such a fantastic, spirited, woman in my life. I’ve been able to bond with her in that way that is difficult once you leave grade school. (Un)fortunately, Val and I’ve walked a similar path in our adult life. We’ve experienced some of the same struggles, nearly at the same time, bringing us closer together. And I’m so grateful.

Later in the day, Adam was nice enough to wrangle Nora so that I could roll my Birthday Sushi, a tradition for me even when we can’t afford to buy the good stuff. Once again, Val proved to be a trooper, standing around in the kitchen refraining from teasing me as I muddled through using a bamboo mat for the first time. I’ve been rolling sushi for a few years, but by hand, because we couldn’t see spending money on a mat when I was doing fine by hand. The last time we had to order the seaweed. Adam found a deal for fifty sheets and a bamboo mat for cheap - he jumped on it and I’m thrilled to be clumsily rolling with a mat. We had dinner together; Val was generous enough to stay until Nora’s bedtime, so that I got a full day of friendship for my birthday.

As a child, I marked birthdays as something to be endured, never living up to their potential; overwhelmed by the pressure to Have the Best Birthday EVER by a well-meaning mother, I built a wall of anxiety that made me nearly catatonic in the weeks preceding my birthday. The anxiety eventually morphed into dread and avoidance in my teen years. Branching out on my own, creating a new family with friends, meant a rebirth, if you’ll forgive the phrase and I went after birthday celebrations with the hedonistic focus of Dionysus. Marriage (eventually) brought maturity and I’m thrilled beyond words to wake up to the sound of my daughter wishing me Happy Birthday.