At 11 p.m. the night before, the phone rings. The caller forgot about the change in time zones, but we were on the phone long enough for him wish me a happy birthday at my midnight.
I smartly moved the phone charger into the livingroom and turned my ringer off so I could sleep until a decent hour. True to my guess, the calls and messages began at 7 with a call from my dad. He couldn’t remember how I old I was, saying, “Happy 28th, 29th, or… close enough, whatever it is.”
The next voicemail was from my three-year-old niece where she forgot the words and just repeated, “Happy birthday to Jo! Happy birthday to Jo!” in her precious little sing-song voice.
Then the texts. And more calls. And the emails. And the e-cards. And the IMs. And the Facebook and MySpace comments.
It’s all very nice and very much appreciated.
Happy birthday to me indeed.