Last year I celebrated my birthday in Hawaii--E. and I decided we deserved a real vacation--the kind with tropical drinks and warm weather and sun and beach. It was exactly that--a perfect vacation. On the annniversary of my birth we were on horseback overlooking the ocean with a warm hawaiian drizzle anointing us. Approximately two days later, unbeknownst to my logical mind, though my body already knew, I was pregnant. Without getting into tricky particulars about the life of sperm and eggs, it's quite possible that the child swinging in his little swing right now was actually conceived in Hawaii on my birthday. Pretty cool.
Now, today, as I celebrate, unbelievably, a year later, I get to do so with my husband and son. My son. The concept of birthdays now takes on a whole new meaning. Not only because I have now experienced birth for myself, but because this is the last birthday of mine in which I will take center stage in my own life. (Not to mention that that was probably the last tropical vacation we'll be taking for a few years).