After what turned out to be a rather anxious and frustrating week (hey folks, this sandwich generation stuff is totally not for the faint of heart!) there was a distinct possibility that I was going to feel my 43rd birthday in a major way. Turns out yes, I did feel it, but not in a morose way. Like, not at all moody. Not even a smidge. If anything, I feel the most content and happy with myself and my relationships with my husband and children and with my place in the world, than ever.
But you can't expect me to not burst into tears when you bestow precious, enormously, thoughtful, generous things upon me. It's just not going to happen. My husband, Alex, knows me. He gets all my quirks and my sensory needs. As do my children. So everything they gave me tapped into some sensual side of myself, my need for beautiful sights and sounds, my need to observe and chronicle, my need for adventure and escape. Every gift was deeply personal and so, well, tears. Sobbing, really. I think at one point I wailed, "why are you doing this to me?"
Alex and the teens made a delicious brunch and the sun was shining, which was extra nice. And then I tore through gorgeous paper and Washi tape and the tears came. I was loved. Am loved. I am being loved, adored and cherished. More than that, they see me. And that, by far, is the best gift anyone could have.