It’s my birthday, number 47, and once again, after 20something birthdays with rather attractive partner, he’s got nothing. No packages, presents, bows or bags. No card. No wine. No dinner plans. No cake. Zero. Zilch. Nuthin’.
The kids are awesome, and come thru with a card, poem, necklace and without fail, our traditional birthday wake-up call: blasting The Beatles Birthday Song at the crack of dawn with a wake-up-it’s-your-birthday dance party. In bed. With the dog.
While our family is big on music, we’re short on gifts. For mom. Year after year.
Last year, Kid1 was already on campus when August 22 rolled along, but did manage to call, yet said nothing, only playing the Beatles Birthday over the phone.
It’s all quite good.
I don’t know why rather attractive husband still frets after all these birthday years, but he does. Yesterday, he panicked, I have no doubt, on the 15th tee at 5:45 pm in a looming storm, when he realized, with the aid of a lightning bolt, that yet again, my birthday was in a few short hours and he’s once again, got nothing.
But all is good.
Because while I am not dripping in diamonds or pearls, and cards remain hidden in tool boxes, I get the best birthday gift every single day. Every morning, and I do mean, every morning, my rather attractive husband brings me coffee in bed.
If he leaves early, it’s waiting on the bedside table. If I’m awake, it’s delivered, hot and steamy and fresh.
Mostly because he’s quite afraid; I’m a real bitch not a morning person, and he probably doesn’t trust me with the care of his offspring without being fully caffeinated before he leaves home.
Not all women would want it this way, but I wouldn’t take it any other. No flowers, no candy, no lingerie.