The morning the rest of the country was supposing the outcome of the Superbowl and the 12th man, in particular, was a ball of nerves, and the groundhog saw his shadow, or he didn’t–that day–my husband quietly turned 44.
No birthday song. It was early. And no fanfare, really. Not even a squeak from the harmonica that gets wheezed on most mornings. Just the kids on the couch delivering the homemadest of homemade gifts to their dad.
Sometimes a gift starts with something that you find. A real treasure. Like the tiniest tip of a broken razor blade now tucked in a piece of construction paper and sealed with masking tape.
And sometimes it reflects the hours that you sat at the dining room table penning 44 note cards with just the right words.
“Good for three games of tag.”
“Good for one hour of alone time.”
“Good for 1 nacho at Los Pinos (with me)!”
Because it never hurts to include yourself.
And so to the guy whose birthday was celebrated by millions with spicy wings and cheese dip and shouts at the TV, know that we three celebrate you.
All year long!