A birthday

I poured myself a bit more coffee than my one mug this morning. I ate left-over sopapilla for breakfast. I listened to Joan Jett at 5:30 am, and played with my new computer camera.

It is my birthday today. I realized yesterday that when I hear the date January 4th, I think, "Hey, that is my sister's birthday." And I am squarely channeling the Beatles when I declare to myself and the world, "Hey, it's my birthday too!" I am moving into my late thirties, which translates to mean that my husband works a twenty-four hour shift today. He'll be back tomorrow. I am looking at no downtime today. Errands. Visiting my father. No naptime. Maybe some art project for dinner while Beatrice nibbles on Mac and Cheese and carrots. No clowns or pony rides. Just life. Regular old thirty-something life.

I received the best gift last night. From myself. I slept through the night for the first time in over a month. All night. In my own bed. It was nice. I feel groggy this morning. How can I still be tired after eight hours of uninterrupted sleep without a single dream or nightmare? And yet my demanding body wanted more hours to rejuvenate. I aged this past few months of Christmas cookies and insomnia. Wrinkles around the eyes. Double chins. Bloated face. I want to look at myself again and see health, strength, sunshine instead of impending middle age and depression. I think I need a sleepcation. Somewhere boring and designed for optimal rest. Or someplace where I am forced to do manual labor for 10 hours a day. I may have hit on something there.

Today, for my birthday, I would really like to do yoga in the privacy of my living room without becoming an ersatz jungle gym. I would like to have a bath without a two year old throwing every bath toy at me, stripping nekkid and inviting herself for a dip. I'd love to have a glass or three of a dry white wine with crusty bread and cheese for dinner. I'd like to paint a picture without a dripping orange paintbrush plopping down right in the middle of the paper.

"But, Beatrice, it doesn't need to be more beautiful right now."

This birthday, I would like to wail and scream into my pillow because Lucy might have been born today, if that little turning wheel of EDD fate had its way. And yet, I am also grateful to have to move through today being responsible for other people. My father may not remember that I was born today. He will ask me about his laundry, and tell me to tuck in his sheets, and remind me for the thousandth time that he puts his shirts in the third drawer.

"I know. I put away your laundry every week," I will think. "Okay, Dad. " I will say instead. 

I am thirty-six. I am a grown up. People rely on me to do stuff. And that sometimes is the best gift in the world. I used to joke that I wanted "suck up and deal" to be carved in granite of my gravestone. I rarely do that these days. I suck up nothing. I crumble into a ball of overly sensitive messiness at the most benign of situations, except perhaps when dealing with my sick father, my husband and my toddler. And it gives me strength to face the other unbearable aspects of this journey.

Sometimes, when you turn thirty-six, you want to the world to stop for a minute. To take inventory of your losses and your gains. You want to recalibrate the measure of happiness. Despite the fact that I will not get any of the things I want today, or have confetti thrown over my head, I am happy because the people that rely on me the most, also are the ones that give me the most by the simple need of my strength and happiness.

"Why are you hitting me, Beatrice?"
"I don't know, Mommy."
"Please stop, Beatrice."
"Okay, Mommy. Mommy?"
"Yes, Beatrice."
"Let's play together. You be the baby, and I be the whale...'Hi, Baby.'"
"Hi, Whale."