Shortly after the clock struck 12am, the eve of The Big Day, The Baby arose, walked across the room and wished me a happy birthday. I had forgotten, most likely because I was on the path to being three sheets to the wind, repeating myself, need I go on ?

During the second hour of my birthday, as we tidied up a bit in the kitchen, wrapping bits of leftover cheese and scraps of eels, The Ftaher gave me his gift.

If he were a musician, it would have been a song.

If he were a writer, it would have been a book dedication.

If he were a painter, perhaps he would have done my portrait.

But he is none of these things. He is a businessman. To be precise, he is a salesman, of the sort that could sell sand to a Saudi, ice to an Eskimo.

As we stood in the kitchen, stacking bowls and cups into a dishwasher, he told me that his gift to me was this : the big meeting that he had tomorrow, the one that had started as a dream of his many years ago, he was doing it for me. It was his gift to me.

I suppose that if you have never been around a really good businessman, or, to be precise, a really good salesman, you could never appreciate the value of this gift.

But I do.

I am blessed, kiddos. Short and sweet.

The Girl came home, a bit after dinner. She and I were making small talk in the kitchen and- as it had all day- the words for it’s my birthday !! tumbled out , expelled with pleasure, from my lips.

She froze. A look of true despair crossed her face and she said , I don’t have a present for you !

I haven’t a clue as to where that came from, for never in her life have I wanted or expected gifts on my birthday. I suddenly felt horrid, for I wasn’t trying to make her feel guilty. That doesn’t matter, I said. I don’t need presents.

She walked over to me and wrapped her arms around me. She kissed my cheek and wished me a happy birthday.

A perfect gift.

Home from school, The Baby handed me a gift. Wrapped in cellophane, tied with tightly curled, shiny ribbons, I knew that whatever it contained was a gift of the heart.

For you see, in my usual, bumbling, disorganized way, I hadn’t gotten around to filling in the birthdays on the calender tacked to the door of The Baby’s classroom. The calender where one fills in the birthdays of the child’s mother, father and grandparents. Advance notice, if you will.

Nope, whatever was so gaily wrapped, sitting before me, was the result of The Baby insisting that she must have a gift for me, even if it was not on the calender tacked to the door: October 24 was her mother’s birthday.

A gift of persistence, I placed my keys on my pretty new key chain.

Catherine gave me a gift next. A beautiful, pill box shaped ceramic container filled with Patum Peperium. The Gentleman’s Relish the label tells me, as well as mentioning that it contains anchovies. And recommending that I use it Very sparingly.

I am one of the few people that I know who loves anchovies- always got a whole pizza for myself, dontcha know.

It is such a pretty little thing. I can hold it in my hand.

It has a bit of poignancy about it- or, perhaps mawkiness is the more correct word- for me. We have known each other for over 6 years. We met online. We have met a few times- maybe it is now moving beyond a few- face to face. I can never be the same person that one knows online when I am face to face. Perhaps I am best at being a friend of the written word, rather than of the spoken. A sort of ghostly comrade.

And here I have a pretty little box, which I can cradle in the palm of one hand.

Tangible evidence of a friend.

Yesterday morning, The Boy handed me a present. As always, I smiled and told him that he really didn’t have to do that. I just liked that it was my birthday.

I loved his gift. He had rooted through two bags of wine gums and picked out the purple ones- which I love- and filled a little baggie with them, even though everyone agrees that the purple ones are by far the best of the bunch.

After he had left for school, Callum spied my bag of prime wine gums and asked if he could have one. After I glanced over to his mother- getting the ok- I said yes, and he took one out of the bag.

As he chewed it, I told him why this was such a great present : because the purple wine gums are…simply the best. He chewed for a while, as I was nattering on and then commented that they were indeed the best of all wine gums.

Raising my eyebrows, I said, well, don’t ask for another one, for you won’t get it. They are mine. It is my birthday, they are my present. Of course I was smiling the whole time, in a rather greedy, laughing way.

And it seemed that- at least to him- that was both perfectly understandable and acceptable behavior on my part.

I love that The Boy gave me the purple ones. I love that he knows that I favor them. I love knowing that he does as well, but gave them to me.

Good gift,Boy.

I have always disliked getting gifts. There are many reasons for that, too utterly dull to go into now.

Everyone around me knows that given my druthers, I ‘druther not be given a gift. After all, this is a true thing : I have more than I ever dreamed of having.

In an hour, my day will be over. And today I have been overwhelmed by gifts, each and everyone of which I loved receiving.

Brought tears to my eyes.

I kid you not.

I think that if I list them, tomorrow, I might not be able to convey just how each gift was special. I will try. If I can’t do, eh, you will never know, will you ?

( This is how I spent today : just like a four year old. It has been an enormous amount of fun. I have said MY and Mine all day long.)

And having spoken in the language of children all day, I have been all powerful.

My whim became law.

(ALT: A Good Shimmy Is God’s Gift To Women)

As I told the children this evening, I just love the day as it is.

After all, it’s MY day, isn’t it ?

How can anything spoil that ?

Neither your site nor your email is working- are you back ? If so, do tell ! I for one missed you greatly-

After he had run his laps, The Boy and I went into the club cantine to wait for The Father. As we sat there, that song started playing quietly, on the tinny radio somewhere behind us. And The Boy sang along. He looked into my eyes and sang the song in the voice that he usually reserves for himself. We laughed when the lyrics went flying high, rather then the naughtier version.

A surprise present, I guess.

This evening, The Boy took part in a Sponsor Loop for his football club. He was told that his participation was not optional.

Here is what he had to do : he had to go around and find as many people as possible who would pay him x amount of money for every 200 meter lap that he ran. Ran, not walked, the controls this evening were rather sharp ( like Ben Hur in the galley, that nasty drum beating came to mind).

Like his mother, The Boy has very strongly delineated ideas about certain things. Take- for instance- the fact that he is smack dab in the middle of a vacation. He was in no mood to go peddling his athletic capabilities around town. He ended up with his Opa and us sponsoring him. When asked, he said that he thought that he could do 14 laps.

He ended up doing 18. I suppose that if Mummy Dearest hadn’t stopped him after a certain point, at the resting area, made him sit down and drink some liquids, he could have done more. I saw those fathers who understood the character building nature of such an exercise as this, who pushed their little boys on, beyond their pain, yet another lap, some going so far as to even run a lap or two with the lads.

I suppose that if The Boy grows up and lacks gumption, it will be my fault. Because I just wouldn’t push the boy to the point of puking for his football club, something that he enjoys but has no real passion for, like he might for something relating to animals or poor children.

Nope, for his football club, I would rather just give them the money.

But I didn’t do that. The Boy ran 18 laps and made 36 euro for his football team. 4 more laps than he thought that he could do. He is proud of himself.

And so am I.