for the birthday challenge: My best birthday gift was not the most expensive, or lavish, or even the smutty underwear bought by my first love. In fact the cake was uneven and tilted, though covered with coconut frosting to match its German chocolate heritage. “We made it ourselves,” her daughter said proudly. “The cake, not the gift. Grandma made that.” For once, her words matched her wholesome face and we could all be on a cereal box together, despite not being family at all. The gift, tied with a red ribbon, was an afghan, replacing the one my friend moved to Tucson, a perfect match fot the new colors in my new room. A gift I got because someone listened is the best.

The topic is entertaining, and before we change it I wanted to add something in honor of today's events:

Every baby is born a different way. Sometimes there’s surprise, sometimes there’s worry. There’s always a lot of hard work. It’s stressful, and tiring, and by the end celebrations are quiet, respectful. Praises be for the miracle we have witnessed.

But on this day, we’re doing things our own way. A ripple in the pixels, and suddenly we’re waiting with bated breath. Old friends, new acquaintances, and even some faceless names. We’re taking bets and waiting for spoilers, we’re sending good thoughts and good vibes. The birthday party’s ready to go, now we’re just waiting to see who you’re bringing.

The birthday party’s ready to go, now we’re just waiting to see who you’re bringing.

Beautiful! Love this.

Awesome, Ailleann!

Ailleen! Sniff. You made my allergies act up.

Aww, Cindy. Your post was so adorable, and so very Buffista, that was part of the inspiration.

hands you a kleenex

Aw. That one's a charmer.

Challenge #125 (birthday celebrations) is now closed.

Challenge #126 is muscles.

muscles

I like muscles. I once fell in love with the entire varsity wrestling team, who was standing in the college cafeteria line ahead of me. They were all wearing tank tops. They had pretty shoulders.

I like muscles on me, best. Back in the day, I could lift heavy boxes without needing a man around to do the heavy lifting. Self-sufficiency is nice, though it took a few years to get over the gut-envy of the frail girls who had bedazzled guys following them around to lift anything they wanted.

I've come to appreciate guys muscles again. I feel a traitor to feminist self-sufficiency, but it seems a shame not to give the 20 and 30-something guys who help us move a chance to flex their muscles.

Heartbeat

I used to wonder, and I still ask myself occasionally: is the heart an organ, or a muscle?

I've never been able to convince myself that science is right either way. An organ, yes: the steady beat, the movement of blood, the way it speaks to air and soul, the way we can't survive without one. An organ, surely?

But a muscle, too, in its strength, its ropey resilience, its flex.

Resting my head against your chest after that first small heart attack, listening to it stutter and pump, I wondered: organ or muscle?

Neither, both. Actually, it's a miracle.