John and I have a not-so-funny running joke: every time we want something any time near the vicinity of our birthday, we’ll spout off, “But, honey, it’s my birth<insert interval of time (week, month, etc.)>” I think it started when John made the observation that men only get a birth-day, whereas with women it becomes a birth-month or some equivalently decadent ritual.
Fittingly, the expression always sort of turns true with us. It seems like we’re often ships in the night…to get an entire day spared for celebration with one another, it just doesn’t happen. Not meant as a complaint. Life is very good. But it just gives us an excuse to spread out the birthday without guilt: a dinner out here; a gift of a full-night of sleep there…you get the point.
Today my love is one year older with more jubilance and energy than I ever thought possible. He’s asleep in preparation for his night shift; I just woke up for my late shift in the pediatric emergency department (my current rotation–it’s awesome! I got to drain an abscess yesterday! Very satisfying.). Unfortunately, I won’t see him today. So I’m wishing that our daughter pulls out all the stops for him this afternoon. I think a yogurt run and a playground excursion might be in order:
More tame, but of comparable joy to that experienced during last year’s birthday.
anna in med school 
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