This morning I woke up to the usual, "Mommmeeeeeeee! Help me!" I rolled out of bed and stumbled down the hall in my underwear to find the all-too-familiar scene of Jackson at the doorway of his bedroom, imprisoned by the baby gate. "Where's Grammi?" he said as I wearily picked him up and headed downstairs, coffee on my brain. It seemed too complicated to explain that, yes, Grammi was here when he went to bed last night, but she had since left to catch a flight to Arizona for a work conference and wouldn't be back for another week.
So I just said, "Grammi's on the airplane!" as excitedly as my bed head could muster. Jackson looked at me blankly, but seemed satisfied with her whereabouts- especially if it included an airplane.
A normal start to our morning, but then it dawned on me: It's my birthday! At (now) 27 my birthday has become something that reminds me I'm much closer to 30, but I still get a childish joy out of thinking that the day is all mine.
Well, no. That's not completely true. I joyously and ironically share my birthday with Brent, my older brother. Up until last year this fact was not a reality, but I'm so glad it is now. My mom worries that our shared birthday makes us feel gypped, but I assure you it does not. It's just one of those things that make you say, "what are the chances?" and then go on to feel an unspoken bond- a connection that even the awkward stages of getting to know each other can't infiltrate. Brent and I both suffer from "what's there to say without getting too personal?", a disease passed down by our maternal family which causes initial relationships to plod slowly forward, struggling against the heavy load of assumption, until one day the relationship suddenly feels like an old shoe that you'd never part with due to its comfort.