The happiest of birthdays at 57
/The Boston Herald
BEVERLY BECKHAM
You wouldn't want people, even people you love, phoning you every morning, then, heaven help us, singing their hello. A ringing phone plus a chirpy person before a second cup of coffee is definitely not a good thing.
Except when it's your birthday. Then you want the phone to ring. Then you're eager for everyone you know to do his-her rendition of "Happy Birthday to You," never mind how early it is because even though you're not a kid anymore, on your birthday you still are and you want the song and the celebration, the cake and the candles and everything - balloons, lunch, "It's your birthday, wow!" in between.
My cousin Jeannie was the first to sing "Happy Birthday" Wednesday morning. I haven't talked to her in months, but there she was on the phone booming away as if we had talked just the night before. I let her sing the whole song and relished every note. Then Anne called and sang. Then Caryn. Then my father.
It's nice to be 57 and still have a father. It's nice to hear a voice that has accompanied you through childhood and adolescence and young adulthood and now not-so-young adulthood, singing slightly off key (sorry, Dad) "Happy Birthday to You." And it's nice to have him say that 57 isn't old, that he'd like to be 57 again and then before he hangs up, call you by a name no one else can call you. "Happy Birthday, Daughter.”
It's nice to be called Mom, too. And to get birthday cards that say what grownup children seldom say: that they still need you, and appreciate you.
When I was born I became a daughter. Then I became a friend. Then a wife. Then a mother. Then a mother-in-law. And now, this year, I am a Mimi, too. (That's my grandmother name.) The names alone are enough of a gift any day of the year. The birthday cards that give homage to these names are a bonus.
Mid-morning, because Rosemary hadn't called me yet, I called her. ("I was going to call you," she wailed. "You just didn't give me a chance.") She's in New York for the week, mentoring a 13-year-old. So after I sang "Happy Birthday to Me" (maturity does not go hand in hand with age), I said, "We were just 13 ourselves, Rosemary. How did this happen? Where did the years go?"
And then I hung up and looked around at my daughters and their husbands, at my son and his wife, at my husband and at Lucy, our grandbaby now 8 months old, and I thought this is where the years went. And I smiled.
I got an orchid from a friend. The doorbell rang and a man handed me this delicate flower. An orchid in February is a beautiful thing.
I had lunch with a friend, a perfect lunch. But the friendship is better. I had dinner with my family at my daughter's house. She made me a cake. We sat at the dining room table.
And I heard from so many friends.
I used to wish on every birthday candle for future things - for a baby for my mother, who had only me; for A's in school; for a boyfriend; for success; for a miracle for something; for many things I believed would bring happiness. I used to squeeze my eyes shut and wish hard, imagining what I wanted as I blew out the candles.
This year was different. This year I kept my eyes open, the happiness I wished for right in front of me. This year I finally realized all that I have.