Remember when you were 9? That last single digit, man. You spend the whole the year waiting for the Big 1-0! You count the day of your birth each month, and the half year is a stepping stone. You’re not just 9. You’re 9 1/2! Almost 10!
I still do half birthdays. (If you don’t know what number this is, I’m not saying. If you do know, you’ll hush your mouth and know I love you.) Sometimes, if I’m not too busy to notice the date, I’ll do quarterly birthdays, too. If nothing else, it gets my hubby to shake his head. It seems to be how I mark the passage of time. I get distracted with every day life and need to stop a few times a year to acknowledge the days that belong to me.
Of course, every day I wake up is a day that belongs to me. Every day should be celebrated, but that’s not how real life works. We have deadlines and car pools. Sometimes grief makes us ambivalent or hostile to joy. Worry steals our sleep. Lack of sleep undermines our creativity. The world passes in a blur of gray.
That’s why we need half birthdays, so we can stop for a minute, put on the blinking tiara that came with the Mother’s Day card from the favorite daughter. Mark the day. Add a punch of color. Count our blessings.