Blow Up the Balloons!
- info6039409
- Aug 4
- 2 min read
Get out the party hats! It’s AUGUST!
Most families have one—you know—the one month out of twelve where birthdays run rampant and celebratory events like anniversaries put Hallmark to shame.
Folks, August is our month! Make no mistake—it’s one cake-eating, candle-blowing, card-buying month. August 5, 6, 9, 11, 15 (2), 25, 26, and 28—mark your calendars.
Those dates have spanned a lifetime. Literally. My birthday is August 5th—I’ll be 52.
I think we all know I’m a bit long on the storytelling side, so I’ll try to keep it short. I’ll break it down to one birthday.
Big Numero 5.
It was the Kern's Bread Man and the merry-go-round. Check out that photo! The cheesy grin on that little bob-haired redhead. Check out that fearless crop-top! Wild, carefree—waiting for the mini-loaves of bread the Kern's man passed out before he departed.
There was no sign by the horse I rode that said
“Skip year 34—You lose your job and sell everything you own.”
“Take 2 year 20’s. Wow! Those months studying and backpacking in Europe are amazing.”
And on not a single candle was there a wish that said:
“Let Mom get Parkinson’s.”
“Let Dad die playing softball.”
“Let us care for Mom and feel like we’re doing a crappy job most of the time.”
Nope—not on the 1,326 candles I have blown out over 51 birthdays. (Note: I did NOT add that up. Go to ChatGPT, ask about “arithmetic series.” Total useless info.)
And as always—JJ, GET TO THE POINT.
Life is unpredictable, and no matter what, I cannot tell the future. At 52, wishes seem to be more like prayers. Don’t get me wrong—I still wish for a lottery win on at least one candle, but adulthood has led me to believe a prayer for that might be more beneficial. (Lord, I hope you’re listening.)
If I was Michael J. Fox in his famed DeLorean, I wonder how my “back to the future” would look. Would my 5-year-old self wish for Mom to not get Parkinson’s (would I even understand?)? Would my 20-year-old self say, “Sell my car, Mom, so I can stay longer in Europe”? Would my 37-year-old self wish there was an ambulance at the ballpark the day my dad had his heart attack? Could I change the course of time? No.
These years and events have shaped me and molded me into who I am—physically and mentally. I best describe it as a patchwork quilt woven together. Some stitches good, some frayed, and some—well, I’m still working to hold those together.
This birthday, I won’t use all my wishes and prayers. Maybe two or three. I pray for my mom’s comfort. The Lord’s blessings on my marriage and family. And my ability to accept whatever comes my way—good and bad—with grace and gratitude.
Oh, and a plastic surgeon to fix my turkey waddle neck. (A BOGO would be great because Nat wants one too.)
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