Every year my husband gives me the same thing for my birthday.  The wrapping is different, as is the shape, but the gift is the same, and every year he moves me to tears.

I’m lying in bed.  Muffled voices and muted sounds stir me from my sleep-stories.  I curl in deeper to the coziness that only a slept-in bed can provide.  As my consciousness surfaces, so does the realization that I’m another year older.  32.  Another year has passed.  Memories of the past year flood my mind like a high speed slide show.  Adventures; changes; birthdays; insights; struggles.

I hear soft steps coming up the stairs.  Restrained voices outside my bedroom door.  It’s my birthday breakfast.  I watch the door slowly open.  On cue, my 2 year old belts out his rendition of the happy birthday song: Happy Birthday to Your Mommy!….  Already a perfect birthday.

The pillows are piled high behind my head, the food tray set over my legs, my family gathers around to watch.  Mmmm.  Hot coffee, orange juice, eggs benedict.  Kids like puppies; begging a morsel, clamoring and climbing to get in on the action.  I share my bounty, bite by bite.  I pick up the coffee in my new to-go cup; the first of many gifts I’m certain will come throughout the day. I see the card, nestled in amongst the various delicacies.  I open it; words of love and appreciation fill the pages along with the promise of a wonderful day and more gifts.  I am crying already; my stomach and my heart are filled. The day has just begun.

We carry the troops downstairs.  A second cup of coffee.  Another gift.  My son presents  houseplants wrapped in pretty bows; love added to something already beautiful.  They are the brightest green, like the color I used to have on my wall, and they come with the promise of enormous growth.  My thoughts turn to my children.

The second stage of the day begins.  Another gift.  My husband tidies the morning chaos, relieving me of my duties and responsibilities for the day.  I expect it and cherish the break that is more for my mind and soul than my body.  A day off.  A day to think only of me.  A day to go where I want and do what I want, when I want.  A guilt-free break.  A gift.

I’m clean.  I head out the door to pick up another promised gift: the big one of this birthday.  I don’t need to ask if it’s a good time.  This year I asked for a small notebook computer.  I bought one in red.  I return home to set it up, then I write.  Free from usual interruptions and the thousand demands that are flung at me every hour of a normal day.

As I type, I look forward to what is to come.  I enjoy the pleasure of my family’s company as a guest, instead of a care-taker.  I am already filled.

Every year my husband gives me the same thing for my birthday.  The wrapping is different, as is the shape, but the gift is the same, and every year he moves me to tears. Last year, photography; the year before, yoga; before that, crafting; this year, writing.  Every year my husband gives me acceptance of my fleeting interests.  Every year he gives me acknowledgement in my raising our kids.  Every year he gives me his faith that I can accomplish anything I want to achieve. Every year he gives me hope for me to be fulfilled by my passions and what moves me in life.  But most of all, every year, he gives me his love. He gives me all of this in the thought-full gifts he buys – tools to conquer my dreams, and he gives me all of this in the way he tenderly cares for me and replenishes my soul, each and every birthday.

Thank you my love, for another wonderful year.