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…and many happy returns

Today, I am 39.

40 is next. Before I know it I’ll be wearing pink stretch polyester pants and a dotty rainbonnet. I hope. That’s the goal.

I am not ashamed to admit I love my birthday. I like when people celebrate with me. I like happy wishes and shared cake. Why should I outgrow delighting in any celebration of life?

It’s the day I met my mom and dad in person.

Maybe I heard someone singing, unmuffled by fluid, for the first time? I had my first taste of milk, from my mom who bucked the 70s formula wave and breastfed me. I was hatted and wrapped after my first bubble bath.

Other loved ones held me, too. My grandparents, who have passed on, cradled me. How much would I give right now to be able to hug each one of them again for a moment?

June 6th wasn’t simply the day I was born. Me being on Earth isn’t what is worth celebrating. It’s the day I met some of the most important people in my life.

I know I am supposed to be modest and downplay the day but I won’t. I am glad to be alive, to be here, to know the date when my mom pushed me out sunny side up and into a very good life.

My first birthday:


34 comments to …and many happy returns

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