Thirty-Two

When I met with the lawyer on Thursday, she asked for all my particulars and entered them in a computer file. "Birthday?" she asked.

"March 24, 1975."

"That's coming right up."

"Saturday."

"So you're what, thirty-two?" She glanced at me. "You're a baby!" I laughed.

There are worse things to hear on the threshold of divorce. Mind you, I heard the same thing from the woman who sold me my wedding dress, on the threshold of marriage, and it wasn't so complimentary.

This morning I woke up, wrote for thirty minutes before going downstairs, occasionally letting myself be distracted by Frances's gorgeous voice--when she is close enough for me to hear the tone and tenor but too far to hear what she's saying, I can lose myself in the sound of it. Eventually I went down, and saw my grinning girl by the coffee table.

"Happy Birthday, Mummy!"

"Thank you!"

"You're thirty-two!"

"Yes, I am. Can I have a birthday hug?" I got one--complete with back-thumping and shoulder-snuggling.

"We have to share a birthday cake, Mummy," she said.

"We do?"

"Yes. I will have some cake, and you will have some cake! We will share the cake!"

"Oh. OK." I paused. "I don't think I've ever been in the position of buying my own birthday cake before."

But I did. Good practice, I think.

As much fun as it was to share my birthday cake with Frances ("Mmm! This is so good!" said Frances, digging into her slice of chocolate truffle) and Erik (who was not excluded), and as much as I am looking forward to going out for shopping and dinner this evening with some friends (I call this my Stay Out of the House Plan for Maximum Sanity), yesterday was already my favourite birthday present.

It was warm, and sunny, and Frances I were outside almost all day. We bought her a skipping rope, which is still way too big for her, but it doesn't matter because she has only the haziest clue of what she's supposed to do with it, and ends up waving it around energetically while jumping but never even approaching jumping over the rope. We played Stomp the Bubbles, which is when Mummy blows lots and lots of bubbles and Frances waits for them to land on the grass so she can stomp on them. We went for a walk in the woods so Frances could take a picture of the moss, and her feet in the bottom of the wagon. We refilled the bird feeder, and looked at the buds on the shrubs and trees. We took out her "car" and she rode it full-tilt down the driveway, and I caught her before she rode it on to the street, and then she pushed it back up to the top again. I took a picture of her taking a picture of the car. Then when Erik came home from work, they went to the park while I worked out; and when she finally came back inside after almost a full day outside, her jogging pants and spring jacket were covered with bubble soap and mud, which I count as the true measure of a successful day outside in March. It was a perfect, beautiful day.

Posted by Andrea at March 24, 2007 11:22 AM under Me

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