Eight Bonus Years

Scenes from Sophia's 8th Birthday

“Happy Birthday, Soph!” I wake you up and give you a hug. “I’m making pancakes so hurry up and come downstairs!” You do, for once, hurry up, getting up and getting dressed and then padding downstairs in your socks, your hair still unbrushed.

“Happy Birthday, Soph!” Steven tells you when he sees you.

“Thanks,” you say. John smiles from the couch, like he always smiles when he sees you first thing in the morning. Steven pulls you in for a hug and you give John a kiss on your cheek.

I am making pancakes at the stove. While the last pancake cooks, I put the biggest one onto the gray plate (your favorite) and then stick eight candles on it. I light them, and then I slowly start walking toward the dining table where the three of you are now sitting. Midway through my walk, I start to sing “Happy Birthday,” and Steven joins in. John stares at the candles, and you try your best to stifle a smile.

“Why did you have to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me?” you’ll ask later, pretending to be annoyed.

When the song ends, you blow out the candles in two puffs.

“Make a wish,” I say.

We all eat pancakes. Steven drives you to school and I go to Starbucks like I normally do on Thursday mornings. It is “my time” to do whatever I want, which usually means that I read for school or work on my manuscript. Today I order a tall black coffee with half and half in a mug, and then I type up a discussion post about John Henry Newman for my “The Modern Church in a Global Historical Context” class. Discussion posts are my least favorite thing about grad school, and they always take longer than I expect.

At around 9:00, I get home and Steven leaves for work a few minutes later. John is down for his first (and sometimes only) nap, so I read through my manuscript and rewrite a part that needed more details.