The problem with birthdays

Normally, I have no problem being by myself, puttering around the house doing this and that.
I am not afraid to be alone in the store or on the road or even in the forest.
I have plenty of things to do.
But when it's Christmas or Mother's Day or my birthday, my perspective changes.
Things that usually keep me pleasantly occupied seem pathetic.
I start to feel pretty sorry for myself despite the fact that I'm now well old enough to behave better.
Aren't you supposed to be grown up by 61?
I start to count kids and who I've heard from.
My poor husband is hard pressed to do the right thing.

drawn by Jack Morrey

Today, he brought me a new two-player game that I know we'll enjoy when he's done being the Wizard in the SCERA's Wizard of Oz.
Right now, he's not home today or in the evenings because he's at rehearsal so I'll be renting a Redbox chick flick to watch on my own.
Last night he brought me my favorite orange cremes because he knows I get to feeling sad about now.
He's tried hard and his hugs and reassurances go far to make me feel loved.
My daughter has planned a combination birthday dinner for me and almost one-year-old Mia on Sunday. That's good.
My errant father actually called to see if I could take him to get nose-hair clippers today...when I told him I had some birthday plans...he hastily added, "Well, sure, that's why I'm calling! Happy Birthday."
(I will take him tomorrow for ice cream and the clippers, thank you very much.)
My brother and my sister-in-law had Marc and me over for dinner at their home a week or so ago, to celebrate in advance.
So I haven't been forgotten. I know everyone is out there and busy and will eventually say the words.
Plus, there are all those Facebook well-wishers and I have all day to indulge myself.
But it's still a tough go — made infinitely better by this card from across the ocean from 5-year-old Jack.
Thank you.