Every year I think that just maybe, I’m getting too old to be as excited about my birthday as I always am.
I can’t help it, birthdays are exciting and important to me. I’m sure this is a direct result of being raised by a mom who made birthdays oh-so-special.
Mom always allowed me to choose my birthday dinner. She always gave me a party with my friends.
She always made me a banana cake with pink boiled icing and either dolls or ballerinas on top. I always got to shop for and buy a special dress from Filene’s with money that my grandmother would send me for my birthday. And I always would wear a pretty dress to celebrate.
Not much has changed. I still like to celebrate pretty much the same way. 😊
Last year at this time, I was preparing to turn 50. As is the case with most people, this was BIG. I went through some of the usual angst, but really was fine about this big milestone birthday. After all, I was happier than I ever thought possible. I was heathy. I was in good shape fitness-wise. And I was going to celebrate my big day in Paris. I was feeling at peace about that big birthday, and very, very blessed.
Less than 2 months later, I came very close to dying. The past 10 months have been the scariest and most difficult time of my life. While I’m not back to where I was mentally and physically a year ago at this time, I find myself especially grateful to even be having this birthday that I came far too close to missing.
So in my usual fashion, I’m excited about my birthday. I’ll make my special cake (which as an adult transformed into something dark-chocolate-raspberry-ish), put on a pretty dress, and celebrate my birthday with some very special friends. . . and feel ever so grateful for the blessing of this birthday that almost wasn’t.