Am beginning to think that perhaps, birthdays are a joke.
Last year, my birthday was celebrated in the midst of post natal blues, trying to pretend that I’m able to enjoy myself, to please others. This year, it’s in the midst of a mad rush towards Alaska.
I didn’t expect much from this year’s birthday. I guess once you become a mum, priorities change and your focus is no longer on yourself much. But celebrate with both sides of the family, we did. There were nice surprises and thoughtful gifts, there were touching notes and sacrificial giving. But there was also disappointment and hurt, requests unfulfilled, simple wishes forgotten.
The funny thing is, no one actually asked me what I really want for my birthday. Not for many years. And truth be told, what I want is very simple. I would like the gift of time – time alone, time to do whatever I want, even if it’s just to read the newspaper from page to page, or curl up in bed with a book in the middle of the day, or take a walk by the seaside during sunset, or watch a movie in the theatre by myself.
The gift of time isn’t an easy one to give though, it involves taking care of the little berry – and i don’t mean leaving her alone in the cot to cry, but really taking care of her, playing with her, reading to her, making her laugh.
The gift of time with peace of mind, knowing that the little berry is well taken care of – that’s the birthday gift I really would like.
I remember when I was younger, I would set aside time on my birthday to be alone, to spend solitude time seeking God, thanking him for the gift of life, praying and worshiping him for hours alone in a quiet corner of the now-defunct World Trade Centre. Things were so simple and beautiful then. I kinda miss that.
It’s midnight now. Happy birthday to me. Something tells me I’ll find myself wishing for the same wish next year.