It's my birthday...

Here's the thing: I have a "love/hate" relationship with my birthday. Having a birthday so close to Christmas, people mostly just forget about it, which doesn't really bother me that much anymore - in fact, I often forget about it until it's close to the day! And it's never really bothered me to share my age - I've always worn it like a badge of honor.

But then the biological clock gets in the way. It's ticking, and my body isn't tocking.

After nearly 8 years of trying, one stillbirth and one miscarriage, I am still childless. So, my birthdays have become the annual festival of my infertility. And yes, I'm a little sensitive about it. Everytime someone says, "Oh, you're so young!" or "I didn't realize you were that old," it's a jab to the place in my heart that houses my dreams of becoming a parent. The same goes to any comments about my gray hairs, which are multiplying so quickly, I can no longer yank them out at first sight. And I realize I do this to myself, I really do, but it's hard. It's like watching everyone you know open their presents, and you don't get one.

But this year was different. I felt overwhelming optimism on my birthday. I don't know what changed - maybe I was more accepting, or more forgiving of myself, but I had a GOOD birthday!

My family took my out to dinner and I got thoughtful gifts. I got phone calls from friends and family. And my husband got me a beautiful necklace (photo at right) and actually wrote something nice in the card (usually he just signs his name). He wrote:

"I love you and I know the next year will be our best yet."

I cried when I read it - not just because he actually wrote something nice, but also because it was what I was feeling, too. Maybe, just maybe, this will be our year.