I was dreading my husband’s 50th birthday
On tight budgets, volleyball parents, and the quiet math of a life well built.
I was dreading my husband’s 50th birthday.
He’s been out of work since August. The world is sitting on tenterhooks waiting to see how Trump will further upend things, and hiring freezes are everywhere. We’ve lost a quarter of our retirement fund — the one we’ll need in about twenty years. 😬
The financial uncertainty had left me wanting to do... nothing. No plans. No celebration. Not right now. Not like this.
Blaaaaaaaagh.
So imagine my delight when he had one of the best birthdays of his life.
We met for coffee after school drop-off and dog walking. Worked from home for a bit. He went for a lunchtime bike ride. Then we joined parents from our son’s volleyball team at our local pizza place, a group that would never normally come together, united only by the shared joy of watching our kids get really good at something. Volleyball parents, I’ve discovered, are a particular breed. The sport is competitive, but because it’s newer than soccer, the parents haven’t lost the plot yet. They’re easy-going. Friendly. Dare I say, balanced.
After pizza, we watched the game. My husband stood on the sidelines playing hype music between sets. “The Final Countdown” featured heavily, a running family joke courtesy of Arrested Development. My son laughed and did a little dance on the court. Pure joy.
I was on mic duty (we’re in nationals now, cue Glee music 🎶) and I asked the whole crowd to wish him a happy birthday. They cheered. He beamed.
We won the game. 🏆
We came home, heated up his birthday pie, and watched a murder documentary. Perfect evening.
My kids each wrote him a letter for his 50th. I’d nudged them beforehand. This has been a hard year for dad, go beyond what you’d normally write. My son wrote about gratitude. About the drives to every game, just the two of them. About his dad showing up as assistant, hype man, and archivist, energy chews in his pocket, tripod set up to record matches so they can bond over replays, making sure he’s eaten before warmups.
All the things my husband’s own father never did for him.
He wasn’t raised by mean parents. Just unaware ones. Not really awake at the wheel.
So he took dead aim at being the most present father I know. So present that I’ve ended up as the disciplinarian, which has caused its fair share of friction. But watching my son write that letter, I understood every tradeoff.
My daughter’s letter was different, a chronicle of six years of bedtime inside jokes. Little things. The things only two people know about each other.
I catch myself comparing our life to others sometimes. Friends whose husbands work for ethically dubious companies that make them a fortune. One friend asked for fine jewellery for Mother’s Day (I didn’t even know that was a thing) and is so unhappy she berates people for not answering texts quickly enough. Second house, possibly a third on the way. Miserable.
I’ve started to feel a little guilty about how much I actually like my husband.
But no. I’m doubling down.
50 can mean a crisis, a reckoning, and then a rebirth. But that rebirth only lands because of the years of quiet, unglamorous, often thankless work of showing up for your family. The chores of love that feel meaningless in the moment and then, one day, become everything.
It pays off.
Happy birthday, honey. Thanks for being you.
But also, if you wanted to get a job, I wouldn’t be mad about it. 😘
Substack runs on hearts. It literally helps more people find this. So if you got something out of this, press the little ♥️, or share it with a human you like, EVEN BETTER, subscribe and never miss a post. I’ll be here either way.