One Birthday Tradition

I chose one thing. One birthday tradition we all enjoy. Today it pulls me from bed before the sun. Usually I create at night after the children plod to their beds, but last night I fell asleep in the arms of my husband. He came home just in time. His vow true.

Today a beautiful little girl turns six, so I measure and stir and pour in the quiet to make a cake chosen weeks ago.

Sunshine flipped through a well-worn magazine Grandma found at a yard sale, a whole book of cakes cut from simple shapes. The page with an artist palette was marked not only in the book, but in my memory. I had the same cake as a little girl!

Baked butter and sugar fill my nostrils before cake falls out of the pan to cool. Boxes piled high in every room and the moving truck comes tomorrow, but here in this moment I pause from the busyness to create.

This one expectation is of my own making and I am happy to fulfill it. Packing will wait.

It doesn’t take twenty-one traditions to make a birthday or a holiday special. Those lists tend to grow each year.

One homemade cake will be all the decoration and party we need. It will bring the smiles, imprint a memory, and connect our family for generations.

What is your favorite way to celebrate birthdays? Are you simplifying holiday to do lists this year?

Two Months Alone

The conversation began with a different question. Usually, it’s something related to science or the meaning of a word. This night the churning in a young man’s soul surprised me:

Mom, do you feel divorced?

For sixteen years I have never been apart from the man who taught me to relax, to dream, and to accept myself. He gave me a confidence I never had on my own. He struggles, like we all do, but his every cell oozes love for his family. I know this. I live this. I bask in it, and it exists even without his arms around me.

No, son, I don’t feel divorced. Just lonely and stretched.

Dylan’s strength and joy buffer my moods. Fixing the car and cleaning rain gutters have never been on my list of chores. Small problems glare that he would fix in a moment. I wonder what else I take for granted.

Perhaps, my own delusions of strength. I think I’m consistent and determined and patient. My tendency is to blame any issues in our family on my husband.

Reality reveals otherwise. There is no one else here now. I am exposed.

The press squeezes out the best and the worst. The satisfaction of facing a fear or the joy of cuddling with my kids. Other times it is the frustration of yelling or the guilt of laziness. I haven’t suddenly changed because my husband is gone. I was this way while he was as near as his dirty shoes on the kitchen floor.

He loved me then and he loves me now. A blessing that snags in my heart and knots the words. Those scattered shoes look different in my mind now. I see with a new grace for him and for me. Love covers.