I was widowed young--twenty six. I had two children: a son a month shy of four and a daughter of seventeen months.
Unfortunately, my birthday that year fell on the two-month anniversary of our loss. For a number of reasons, neither my family nor my late husband's made contact with me that day--the cards came late.
It was a Saturday, and I felt sorry for myself early on, though later in the day I finally broke down and baked myself a birthday cake.
Well, my little boy
(now all grown up and a father himself--and an artist--you'll need to scroll down) wondered what the cake was for. I explained it was my birthday.
He understood birthday cakes because he'd just celebrated his own special day the month before. The little guy looked around, wanting to know where my presents were. I asked him who was going to give me a present. He gave me a sheepish shrug. I told him not to worry about it, and the three of us had our own little cake party.
I didn't give it any further thought.
Until Christmas approached. My little guy told me he needed someone to take him Christmas shopping. Clueless, I asked him why. He said that since I hadn't gotten anything for my birthday he wanted to make sure I got something for Christmas.
*sniff*
I love little boys.
What about you? Do you have any special memories of a child in your life?
