Try as I might...

I honestly try each year to have a happy birthday.

I know that I have much to be happy about and grateful for: a wonderful life with a loving husband, a great family, excellent friends, meaningful and satisfying work, art and music, the cutest and most loving cats on the planet, a safe and comfortable home, reasonably good health, plenty of interesting things to keep me occupied.

I will do things on my birthday that bring me pleasure, like visit the zoo and a have a meal at one of my favorite restaurants. I will spend time making art and laughing with my husband. Perhaps he will play his guitar for me. It will be a good day, over all.

For the last 10 years, I have tried to be happy on my birthday, and a do manage to find some happiness, to be sure. But the day will always be bittersweet. From about the age of three, I began my birthday every year with the same ritual. Having been born on my mother's 38th birthday, I would look at her (or call her on the phone) almost as soon as I woke up and I would say, "Happy birthday, Mom."

"Happy birthday, baby," was her reply.

I have not heard those words in ten years, nor will I ever hear them again.

I wish I could say that I miss her a little less each year or that the ache dulls just a bit as time passes, but that would be untrue. 

So, I will try to be happy on my birthday, but if I'm a little blue, bear with with me.

Mom and her birthday "baby" -- letting my nerd flag fly