39 and Counting

Yesterday was my birthday.  Goose forgot to make me a card.  She told me this on our way home from cheerleading.

On another note, her impetigo (oh my!) is looking much, much better.

This is what I woke up to this morning.

I officially forgive her for not making me a card yesterday.  I love this child.

I realized yesterday that my mother did not offer to cook my favorite dinner for my birthday, as she does every year.  Upset, I called my sister and berated my mother for this gross oversight.  My sister reminded me that my mom and dad are having their kitchen remodeled and have no appliances.

But still.

I reminded my sister that both she and I had fully functioning kitchens.  Why, then, couldn't mother come to one of our houses to make my special dinner?  IT'S MY SPECIAL DAY, DAMMIT!  My sister, always the peacemaker, agreed to pick up all of the necessary ingredients and cart them to my house, where she would make said favorite dinner.  I love my sister, too.

I can't believe that I am not ashamed to admit that the single most important ingredient in my all time favorite special dinner is this:

OK.  Maybe I'm a little ashamed.

But not so ashamed that I didn't start salivating when my sister lifted this glorious tub of grease that makes my special dinner so special out of the bag.  I might have even whimpered a little bit.  When she spooned out heaping globs of the stuff into the electric skillet (that she also brought from home, knowing my kitchen is not particularly well-stocked and lacks basic appliances), I thought my husband was going to throw up.

My husband does not love my special dinner.

Too bad it's not his special day.

And cubed steak fried in Crisco for longer than recommended (so as to get it particularly crisp and tasty) is what I want for my special dinner.  I get it once a year.  Twice, if I'm lucky and my baby brother Michael requests it for his special dinner.

So cubed steak we had.  And it was so delicious that I didn't wait until my special dinner was completely cooked before I started sneaking little cubed deliciousness.  I swear I ate half a pound of meat before it officially hit the table.  Of course, that didn't stop me from piling several more pieces on my plate AND dishing out a separate bowl of gravy so I could have gravy laden deliciousness with every bite I took.

I might be a little sick now.

But it sure was nice going down.  Cubed steak paired with a nice Malbec may be heaven on Earth.

The empty glass is my mother's.  I'm still working on mine.  Follow it up with a birthday ice cream cake (and a separate serving of my favorite, mint chocolate chip ice cream) and I think I may have died and gone to heaven.

I should be in a food coma by now.

We had such a good time.  My children love to see their Grammy and Pop Pop.

(One reason they may love Grammy is because she bribes them with Goldfish.)

No.  I think the love is genuine.

My mother and father not only showed up for my special dinner (on a night of some serious college football, including our beloved USC Gamecocks), but they also came bearing gifts.  Gifts in small packages.  (The best kind of gifts.)

Opal is my birthstone (duh) -- and I have had many a love affair with opal jewelry.  My Nana, who recently passed away, gave me a stunning opal ring a couple of years ago.  The earrings will go quite nicely with the ring.  I can't remember the last actual "birthday gift" my parents have given me.  It's not that they aren't generous, because they are.  They just don't heap birthday gifts on adult children.  These were a very, very nice surprise.

What a wonderful day.

I can't believe that I have transformed from this:

To this:

It literally feels like a blink of an eye.  It sounds so trite, but I wish I could slow the hands of time to allow me to savor the moments, the small moments that make the fabric of my life.  Moments like these.  Moments in the kitchen, watching my sister fry up my special dinner while my son is running wild in the family room with his grandparents.  Moments spent watching my Goose and her cousins jumping on the trampoline with the Georgia/Florida football game playing on the television.  Moments spent in the dining room with my mother, who looks just as beautiful now as she did when it was her 39th birthday.  Moments at the table with my father, who I am still convinced is the smartest man on Earth.

I am trying like hell to drink it all in.  We all should.  For the moments are passing.  More quickly than we think.

Happy Birthday to me.  And it was.  A happy birthday.