One of my great granddaughters and I share a July birthday. She just turned one, and I’m…a lot older. The baby’s grandma sent me the traditional picture with a cake smeared face and I texted back that this is a gal after my own heart. I still like the frosting best!
The grandpa is kind of grinchy about birthday parties for babies, and I see his point. At one or two years, the kid doesn’t know what’s going on, and the party is for the adults. But there’s nothing wrong with being glad someone is in your world, so celebrating that is just fine.
I’ve always been ambivalent about my birthday. As an only child, my mom made a big deal about it but I never was comfortable with that. None of my friends had parties, and some didn’t even get gifts. Being an only was different enough, and I didn’t want anything else to emphasize that. I never did like being the center of attention.
My children’s father tended to forget the day, since it comes in the middle of haying season, and he‘d hang his head when his parents showed up with a cake. I thought it was funny. I had little kids and hired hands to feed, and no time for partying anyhow.
My daughter is a July kid too. I won’t reveal her age, other than to say it certainly removes any doubt about my having any claim to middle age.
Several of my friends celebrate in July as well. Give Delores Colburn and Sherry Mulligan a call of congratulations.
I got to spend part of my day with family and it was nice to visit, especially since Bruce was off in the wilds wielding a fishing pole. There were calls and texts from others, and I treated myself to a good book, a banana split and a nap. The perfect party, in my book.
I took my friend Marlene out for breakfast on her birthday, which is a couple of days after mine. We were going to do lunch, but decided to be back indoors and hibernate by the time the temperature hit three digits. Aging does bring some common sense.
One of my sons and his wife mark birthdays by getting away for a short trip someplace. That seems like an ideal way to celebrate. Memories are more important than material things once you are truly a grownup.
This year, Bruce and I headed for Fort Robinson to camp for a couple of days and take in the Playhouse productions. The ice cream place in Crawford alone is worth the price of gas, and we hit it often. A waffle cone is better than cake any day, and birthdays don’t have to be celebrated by the calendar once you’re past twenty-one.
Come to think of it, I don’t even recall my twenty first. Not because my memory is failing; just pretty sure my husband was in the hayfield and I was cooking for the crew and changing a diaper.
Meet me here next week and meanwhile, do your best. Somebody might like it.