BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY

I have the world’s best birthday. I was born on the Fourth of July. I’ve never known the dreaded combination Christmas/birthday gift or dual Thanksgiving/birthday celebration, or gone trick-or-treating on my birthday, as other holiday babies have. Instead, I have a day off from work every year when I  get to celebrate my birthday with my loved ones, who also have the day off. With fireworks! What could be better?

When I was born, my parents sent my grandma Mimi a telegram that read “Double Celebration!” Mimi almost fainted. She thought it meant twins. Ha! Instead, it was just little ol’ me. I’m the second eldest of six children with four sisters and one brother. But being an Independence Day baby made me feel doubly special on my birthday.

When I was growing up, I often celebrated my birthday with a picnic at the beach. One year my mom topped my birthday cake (banana cake filled with sliced bananas, same as every year) with sparklers instead of candles. It seemed like a great idea until the sparklers were lit and we saw they’d left a gray residue on the frosting after they fizzled. And you know what? I ate a piece of the cake, anyway. Nothing was going to stand in the way of me and my birthday cake. The same was true of the sand that inevitably found its way onto any cakes that were served at the beach. What’s a little sand when it’s coated in frosting?

My big sister Laura always knew what to get me for my birthday. The year I turned thirteen, she gave me my first lipstick. I can still see it in my mind’s eye: a slim gold tube of lipstick in a shade of shell-pink that I adored and wore to a nub. It made me feel like a grownup before I even wore a bra. To this day, Laura always remembers my birthday, though she suffers from a mental disorder and is all but housebound. Usually, it’s some flea-market find chosen with thought and care, sent with a card containing a loving message.

My sister Karen sends me the one thing I can’t get here in New York City, fresh fruit from the fruit trees on her property, for my birthdays. And jars of her homemade jam. This morning I ate a piece of toast spread with her apricot jam. Literally a slice of heaven. A reminder that the things I love most money can’t buy.

My daughter Mary sent me a lovely parcel of gifts she’d hand-picked throughout the year for my birthday last year, including the crystals that sit on my desk, sending their healing energies to my workspace while I write.

My husband Sandy knows how to make a girl feel special on her birthday. He usually sends me flowers and gives me gifts that he chose with a great deal of thought and planning, in some cases. He claims I’m the world’s hardest person to buy gifts for, which I don’t dispute. “It’s because I already have everything I could want or need,” I tell him. This is what happens when one is spoiled by one’s spouse. A stark contrast to my ex-husband who would often forget my birthday, and the times he did belatedly remember, say something like “Oh, it’s your birthday. Let’s go out and I’ll buy you something,” forgetting that most stores are closed on the Fourth. Ladies, pay close attention to how any man you date treats you on your birthday. If the answer is “poorly,” don’t marry him. Gift-giving tells you a lot about someone else. If you don’t watch out, you could end up like my aunt Betty, getting an ironing board from her hubby for Christmas.

How do I celebrate these days? Well, for one thing I rarely stay up late enough to watch the fireworks. I don’t do parties, either. I prefer low-key celebrations, usually with just me and my hubby.

Tomorrow he’s taking me to lunch at a fancy restaurant in our neighborhood. Afterward, we’ll go for a stroll in Central Park, then watch a movie at home later. I get to pick the movie since it’s my birthday, no complaints from the peanut gallery.

I’m more aware with each birthday I celebrate that I’m not getting any younger. Whenever I forget, my aging body reminds me. I don’t do all the things I did when I was younger, like climb trees, go roller-skating, or eat cake on rare occasions. But with each birthday I’m reminded that I have more to celebrate because I know what I didn’t in my youth: Each year past a certain age is a gift in itself. With fewer years of life ahead of me than behind me, I know to cherish the things that matter.

Love most of all.