My birthday was two days ago, but I guess it was asking too much for my family to take 15 minutes out of 365 days to buy me (or make me) a card.  Not my husband, nor our older daughter, nor our younger daughter thought it was important to acknowledge this joyous occasion that way.  One of them even asked me what I wanted for my birthday, and I replied that I didn't want a present, but a card would make me happy. It isn't that they don't have the time or the money, because they freely spend time and money on other things. And it isn't that my wanting cards is anything new; it's been a tradition for years.  I'm feeling rather like Eeyore over this.

I'm trying hard to be content, because after all, dear husband did treat me to Chinese food, and he and younger daughter took my van to be washed by the high schoolers at church this morning. And older daughter called to sing to me (she has a lovely voice).  All of those are wonderful gifts, and I know I should just hush and be happy.

But there's just something about a personal card wishing me a happy birthday that warms my heart, that makes me feel important.

Thank you to my cyber-friends who did send me cards -- I very much appreciate your TLC.  And a shout out to my elderly parents for their remembrance of my special day.

Sigh.  Maybe next year.