Happy birthday to me.

I’ve always liked my birthday. 

In December 2013, I dressed up as Santa Claus to give little 2-year-old Drake the traditional Christmas he deserved, and he loved it! You know how you buy someone a gift, and you’re sure they’ll love it, and you want to be there when they open it so you can see the look on their face? That wasn’t the case here. We weren’t sure about Drake’s reaction, but the little guy came through with oohs, aahs, blank stares in awe (as seen in the picture below), several finger points, and chants of “Chanta!” This black man saved Christmas that year. 

In December 2012, my atheist friend and I spent Christmas with a Brazilian family that had so much room in their hearts for strays that they adopted not 1, not 2, but 3 young Haitian children. That December, my atheist friend and I ate things we hadn’t eaten before, laughed more than we’d laughed before, and debated stuff we hadn’t conceived before. The magic and warmth of that December outlast our infrequent communications today. 

Even when I was told my birthday’s luster would always be outshone by the blinding glow of Christmas and New Year’s, I always liked my birthday. Mainly because my birthday always ensured that no matter where I was, I was always surrounded by people I liked and was always where God wanted me to be. 

And this year is no different. 

After battling so many hopes, dreams, and disruptions and spending Christmas with some family, I dragged my 2-year-old son kicking and screaming on a plane for 15+ hours and made it home to be with his mama, the baby sister he still can’t quite figure out, and some more family. Who says you can’t have it all?

The joy in my son’s eyes when he saw his mama and the ambiguous tears in hers made it all worth it. 

You see, I live for moments. I’m the kind of person to be the life of the party but also stand in the corner and take it all in. And take a mental picture of a moment and stand still and say, “This is a good moment.”

I watched Zion open his Christmas gifts and fail his first lesson in prioritizing. Not to worry, my dear, this one doesn’t get better with age. I watched everyone else dote around. I watched the machine of life grind on as my wife gave our daughter a bath on the ottoman in the living room while my son patrolled the perimeter of the ottoman beneath with his new red car. Police siren sounds and all. It was a good moment. 

I especially like this birthday.

Because I feel extra blessed. I am extra grateful for my family, friends, and hopes and dreams. Because what is life for if not to aspire to enter nice rooms you can share with those you love?

As I bid you a good year, here’s a nugget that snuck into this unplanned post:

I messaged my wife for her password to something, and she responded flippantly because she was using her octopus limbs to prep for a flight back to me. But in the haste, she told me: “I hope there’s food at home.”

You see, out of all the household chores, cooking was always my least favorite. Like all things (right?), this one comes from my childhood. I can see the damn sheet of paper on the fridge door full of my name in all the unfavorable places: Of course, I cooked on that Friday night when James was hosting that bash. Of course, I cleaned on Saturday morning when the cartoons were at peak. I hated the damn predictability and order of it all, but I am who I am because of those discomforts.

I digress. 

My wife told me to cook, and I realized she wasn’t joking. My disinterest in cooking notwithstanding, I assumed no one would appreciate my cooking because my cooking skills don’t feature even as a footnote in the long list of things I’m praised for. Still, my wife said it was the thought that’d count before vanishing into the void of aerospace. So, that unsettling instruction and the lack of recourse offered by a single tick on WhatsApp married the fear of greeting an angry wife after several months apart and thrust me into the kitchen to cry over onions.

Zion tugged at my trousers as I cooked, urging me to play with him. He occasionally flung himself to the floor, which I’m told is par for the course for 2-year-olds, so I didn’t call the emergency room like a rookie parent. I eventually indulged him while the meat simmered (and the sauce disappeared because I’m not perfect) until, finally, the meal was ready, and when the family came home, they were grateful to come home to a home-cooked meal after a long trip.

Let people love you. 

My wife and I rarely fight, but she’s usually right when we do. And when she’s not, we’re probably fighting because she has been fighting somewhere else to protect me. This is cryptic, but the tea is not the point, so simmer down. I’ve accepted that I married this human and entrusted them with my vulnerabilities, so this human knows me well. Now, when she tells me something, I do it. Because, above all, it comes from a place of love.

The people in your life who know you best and love you see things in you you don’t see in yourself. So, now and then, and maybe often, let them love you. 

Happy birthday to me.