People like to say that as you get older, birthdays don't matter as much anymore.
People who say that are having age-related hysteria. Birthdays are still birthdays. I still want presents of the surprise variety. I still want a big fuss, cake, candles, ice cream and party hats. I wouldn't mind a treat stuff pinata. Or a diamond stuffed pinata, I'd take that too. I fancy breakfast in bed and birthday cards. I look forward to the whole song, even though I'll blush and shuffle around on my feet. It still matters to me that someone cares I'm here.
For my birthday I'd like:
A new book
Paints and brushes and canvases
A sunny day
New shoes, while we're at it
A day at the spa
Dinner and a movie
But I'll settle for simple. A picture from Carly. A card from Josh. A kiss from my husband. Those are good too.
For my birthday, gifts for myself in the coming year: I'm going to be less critical of myself and others, less judgemental, less argumentative. I'm going to give the benefit of the doubt more. I'm going to choose my words wisely. I'm going to yell less, read out loud to my kids more, work on my patience. I'm going to trust those I love with more of myself. I'm going to time to smell roses, kick rocks and weed gardens. And when I fail at all those things, I'm going to try and give myself a break.
Farewell 32, 33 is the new thang.