Today is my birthday.
If you, friend or stranger, are now feeling at least a little compelled to smile and wish me a happy birthday, you have joined the company of my parents, my brothers, old friends and others who love me, but NOT my son.
He checked the mail yesterday, as he likes to do, and it just so happened that all we received was 3 birthday cards. Frankly, I think it's some kind of miracle that there were no bills, no solicitations, no junk of various sort. Just 3 birthday cards, which is as it should be on the day before my birthday, I say.
So my son gets these cards from the mailbox and walks over to me. "Just some cards in the mail today, Momma."
I asked him if he knew why we got those cards. He said no, so I told him the next day was my birthday. He looked at me for a moment as if this information might hold some passing interest for him and then, upon clearly deciding that it did not, said, "I want to be 6. When is my birthday?"
So what I'm hearing is something along the lines of, "That's fabulous, Mom. What I want to know is how does this information affect ME, really? How can I turn this conversation into something about ME?"
This morning I went into his room while he was getting ready for school and asked him if he knew what today was.
"Um, Friday?"
"Well, yes. But it's Mommy's birthday."
"Hmm," he said as he continued to walk around his bed (buck naked, I might add) to make it up.
"Shouldn't you say something to me?" I asked. I've evidently reached the point of pleading with my son for birthday well wishes. Desperate. Pitiful.
"Oh! Happy birthday, Mommy!" he finally managed to eek out. At least he did put a little heart in it and did come fling his arms around me (yep, still nekkid as the day is long -- there's clearly no shame in our house) for a big birthday hug.
Turns out it was the best birthday present I could ask for.
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