I was born on July 1st, mere days after the longest day of the year — a fact I still gleefully lord over my younger brother, who had the misfortune of arriving on December 20th — one of the darkest, dreariest, most vitamin D-deficient days on the calendar. Coincidence? I think not.

Even better, I shared my birthday with my grandfather — my mom’s dad — which meant that for years, it was this sweet, two-generation little celebration that seamlessly bled into the Fourth of July. And let me tell you: if you’re going to be born in Swampscott, Massachusetts, you want it to be in the beginning ofJuly. We didn’t even have to leave the house. Our porch was right across the street from the beach, and the parade practically marched up to our front steps. The fireworks were right on top of us. It was magic. Childhood me thought it was all for me. Honestly, adult me still kind of does.

Ever since my parents divorced and sold our house when I was 18, July's felt off. My birthday now comes with a little side of melancholy and a whole lot of nostalgia. The cake’s fine. The fireworks are... okay. But my birthday is always tinged with slight disappointment, cake that doesn't taste like childhood and fireworks that that have lost their luster. This year, though, I took extra time to enjoy my kids, some good friends, my pool, (AKA the reason I bought my house in the first place) and yes, the fireworks. And though they weren't quite as magical, I was still surrounded by people I love, which is what made the celebration so amazing to begin with.

And let me tell you, I wished hard over the cake this year.