On the eve of his birthday, I always tell Jayce that I’m going to miss him. I’ve been doing it since he was teensy. I’m going to miss you so much because I’m never going to see my three-year-old snuggly bear again. But I’m excited to meet my four-year-old snuggly bear. This morning–before he left for work–Jeff took a page out of my book when he hugged me goodbye. I’m going to miss my 37-year-old wife tomorrow. I’m sure he will; she’s a pretty cool chick.
A few years ago I made my birthday private on Facebook. I did it because I’m a birthday snob. Rather than a hundred sixty-two people typing the words ‘happy birthday’ on my wall because Facebook prompted them to do so, I’d rather have one true friend who didn’t need the reminder. A heartfelt wish. A smile-worthy memory. The link to a YouTube video that pays homage to an inside joke. These are the tributes that matter to me. They fall like hot pink confetti and all the day long I twirl in it.
The older I get, the more I learn about that which matters and–consequently–that which does not. It is with those lessons tucked securely in my breast pocket that I’m turning my face to the sun and opening my eyes to a brand new day.
This is 37:
Eleven years married to the guy who fits me best. My own long exhale at the end of every day.
An intermission in mothering. Costume changes and make-up as the curtain creeps up for Act II.
Uncomfortable transition. A daily longing for home.
Shallow breaths because the girl inches closer to whatever comes next for her. And for us.
The conspicuousness of passing time.
New eyes for sunrises and sunsets. God’s glorious design suddenly an elephant in the room.
Craving for mornings spent quiet in His word.
Unnecessary worry shrugged off. (I get better at this every year.)
Joy free and clear wrapped up in the sweet tiny promise of a baby girl.
Gratitude. And the inescapable humility that accompanies it.
The full rolling boil of anticipation for life re-set in Huntsville.
This is 37.
38: bring it.