K. does not tend to have great (emotionally) birthdays. Who knows why, but he spends the day kind of funky, and even the cookies I make him and the gifts on his plate don't cheer him up all that much.
Yesterday, he turned 29. I met him when he was 19, and wearing this same jacket:
He was working his way through school, substantially poorer than my prep-school boyfriend, subsisting at times on mango chunks and the candy at his aunt's office.
Ten years later, he's supporting our family and my ambitions. He's built a cabin and most of a building and finished a house. He's a wonderful father, the real kind, who gets up in the middle of the night and makes dinners and accompanies me to the pediatrician.
I'm just really proud of him.
And so it's ok that he had the best birthday ever yesterday, entirely without me, in which he went four-wheeling through our property in VT, made a cup of tea in our cabin, and sat watching the mountains next to a roaring fire. That's just FINE. DON'T EXPECT COOKIES NEXT YEAR.
Happy Birthday, sweetie-pie!
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