scribblechic

I have simple wishes.  On my birthday I wish for the company of my husband and children, the anticipation of cake, and handmade cards from my children.  Predictably, each year my husband asks what I want for my birthday.  I want my wishes to come true.

I love a happy surprise wrapped in a bow, but tokens of affection have little value if unaccompanied by sentiment.  I want to wake up to cuddles from my children and to share an easy day of togetherness without arguments or anxiety.  I want to spend each meal distracted by a sugary confection tucked away for later.  Despite my love of beautiful stationery, I want to read my children’s wishes woven around art that fills the blank spaces of homemade cards.

Friends sometimes fill the day with treats, my preference is time.  I have no need for gifts, I rather share a meal or conversation. Time is an indulgence, most of us too busy to sit still, but it is my favorite gift: the company of people I love and the sound of their laughter.

Inevitably someone will ask how old I am.  There are those that antagonize over a number: age, weight, IQ, income.  I prefer undefined anonymity.  I scatter my numbers to the wind, happy to let go of such boundaries and definitions.  On my birthday I am no different, I think less of the progression of time and more of sentiment.  I cherish birthdays past and stay present, uhurried as I look to the future.

In the days following, someone will ask if I had a nice day or if I received everything I wanted.  The answer is: most days my wishes come true, I am rich in the blessings of family and friends.