A Birthday Story

March 12, 1981. I am four and a half years old; my sister is three. We babble loudly in the background for the rest of the story.

My mother awakens with the dim sense that it is her birthday. "Happy Birthday," my father tells her. "Oh, thank you," she says.

The phone rings. It is her old roommate and best friend, my godmother, calling to wish her a happy birthday.

"Thank you!" she says again. "I can't believe it. 29! Just one more year to go until 30."

My father overhears this. He walks over to her, gently puts a hand on her shoulder. "Gerry," he says quietly, "you were 29 last year. You're 30 this year."

My mother turns 30 straight from 28. "Nooo!"

Awww...

It has been a great birthday all around so far, with many friends and family sending me best wishes or thoughtful presents. My website has gotten 20 hits, which improves my ego a bit.

But let me tell you about my husband.

He doesn't believe in wrapping presents. As an anti-gift card person myself, I can understand some outside the box thinking, except that... in his darling, oft-disorganized case, one tends to suspect that the wrapping just doesn't make the deadline, because not enough thought was put into this ahead of time.

Well.

First, this morning: all the chores were done. Well, that's how it's supposed to be, but still. Nice.

I get out to my car. He'd snuck out last night and put a card on the steering wheel - cute thing with a cat on it - and $20 inside so I can treat myself to dinner before my harp lesson tonight. Aw.

I get back from work. There, perched on my harp chair, is a copy of "The Chinatown Death Cloud Peril," which I had wanted to get but was putting off til it came out in softcover. Aww!

Wrapped or not, that's thoughtful.