Fifty-four years and eight days ago, a wise, witty, stubborn, snoring, oyster-slurping, generous, hard-working, handsome man was born and proved again that God is good.
Widdle Baby will hate this column because I’m typin’ and cryin’, and he hates anything that makes me cry. But there you have it: He’s my rock, my foundation, my northern star. (And if he develops feet of clay, a la Tiger Woods, I’ll retract this column and set his hair on fire.)
Two years ago, as we drove around looking at Christmas lights, the holiday music on the radio touched my heart. Gulping through the lump in my throat, I tried to explain to Widdle how much I love him.
After just a few words, I burst into tears and sobbed, “Before we met, I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT LOVE WAS!!!!”
“That’s nice,” Widdle muttered, gripping the steering wheel. “Have your hormones gone berserk?”
“YOU’RE MY EVERYTHING!” I howled, as my left contact popped out.
“Big shoes to fill, babe,” he grunted.
“Honey, you’re my WHOLE WORLD!” I bawled, choking on my tears.
 “You need to calm down,” Widdle said, as sweat popped out on his forehead. “Do you have a paper bag to breathe in? You know what happens when you don’t have a paper bag.”
“My… angel….baybeeeeee….” I snuffled.
“Hang on, honey,” he said. “We’ll be home soon.”
When we walked in the front door, he breathed a sigh of relief. “You go take a hot bath and I’ll have a hot tod—watch TV,” he said. And so we did, and life became sweet and calm again.
I’m telling you all this so you’ll understand how bad I felt last Tuesday.
I put in six hours at my part-time job, worked out and ran a few errands. As usual, Widdle and I talked by phone several times. I got home before he did and was standing over the sink eating raw almonds when he strolled in at 6:30 p.m.
“How was your day?” I asked automatically, opening a diet root beer.
“It was good,” he said calmly.
“Great!” I said. “Mind if I get on Facebook? Or do you want to play FarmTown first?”
“Go ahead. I think I’ll take a nap,” he said. As I walked away he said, soft as a sigh, “Happy birthday to me.”
I wanted to hit myself with a brick. Flay myself alive. Fall to the floor dead.
I forgot Widdle’s birthday. The man I can’t live without, and I FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.
My jaw dropped and several almonds fell out. I couldn’t have felt worse if I’d kicked a puppy into traffic.
There was no way to make amends. I didn’t have a spare birthday card or cake lying around, we both needed showers and we live 15 miles from the nearest “let’s celebrate!” restaurant.
Widdle wasn’t angry. He never is when I let him down. If he forgot my birthday, I’d still be shrieking. But he just chuckled, fed the dog and fell asleep in his recliner.
I took a bath and cried. Then I went on Facebook and posted, “Happy birthday, Widdle! I love you bigger than the sky.” He smiled when he saw it.
I know one thing: If I ever get a tattoo it will say: Dec. 1, 1955.
Julie R. Smith, who also forgets her address sometimes, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.