ordinary day

As I age, birthdays are increasingly less glamorous. The days of popping a balloon with a pin taped to a pencil, landing the coveted first spot in the lunch line, and enjoying birthday wishes and treats all day are over.

Those were the good ol' days. Ah, birthday bliss.

These days I wake up forgetting it's a special day until the Accountant leans over my shoulder in bed, kisses me on the cheek, and whispers, "Happy birthday." And just in case my memory lapses again, buried in my mothering duties and household tasks, I can count on a mid-morning reminder from my nieces and nephew, belting out their high-pitched "Happ-y birth-day, Tan-te Or-pah...." Or I click on an e-mail sipping my coffee, enjoy a phone call or maybe a card in the mail if the sender timed it right.

But generally speaking, my birthdays are pretty ordinary: normal routines, everyday responsibilities. Maybe it's a sign of aging, but I'm beginning to appreciate the ordinary. I'll take the mundane laundry, dirty diapers, and soapy hands plunged deep in the sink. There's something comforting about the ordinary.