So, I celebrated a birthday a few weeks ago. Before having children of my own, this was a HUGE deal. I loved my birthday. I anticipated it. It was, perhaps, my favorite day of the whole year. Now, strangely, it doesn’t seem nearly so important to me. If anything, I find that the birthdays of my children (so strange to say that – children – wow, plural) are more significant and important to me. Those are the days on which I did something huge and important and momentous. Those are the days that I birthed.
Even though my birthday isn’t nearly as important to me as it once was, my family lavished me with attention anyways. I woke up to my toddler, shouting from the bed next to mine, “Happy Birthday to Mama!” (melt my heart) The two oldest boys in the house made one of my favorite breakfasts. And then about two weeks after the day itself, my big gift was finally delivered.
Big in all senses of the word. And I love it. It is such fun to play, such fun to introduce Ewan to having an instrument in the house. Unlike during my lesson taking days, I get to play what I want, how long I want, when I want. Refreshing.
For now, I’m starting simple as I relearn all that I have forgotten from so many years ago when I took lessons. In some ways, I’ve been surprised at how fast it comes back. In other ways, frustrated at how little I remember.
It may come back, it may not. I suppose it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is it’s here and I am loving being back at it.
