It’s that time of the year again, kiddies. As a general rule, I hate my birthday. Not in a histrionic female way, denying that my body and face are aging, but just in general. I learned at a young age I will be disappointed by the downplay of what should be a fun celebration. Yes, that’s another whine about my mother. As I got older, something would happen though. It was probably the stress, anticipating the dread of the day. I would inevitably get sick right about the time of my birthday. Ok, so it could also be the weather changes this time of year, I’ll give you that one too.
For years, I would get the call – “On this day, such-and-such years ago, I went into the hospital. After a few hours, your father went home to call his commanding officer and to shower and change. By the time he had got back, you were here! You’re Grammie ran yelling through the halls, ‘I’m a grandmother! I’m a grandmother!’”
Is it truly selfish that I wanted my birthday to be mine, not theirs? I’ve birthed two children of my own – I know how insanely hard that was. But how many times do I have to repay her for that? When I get upset with my children for not respecting me, I don’t think that they owe me for the act of bringing them into the world, or even for housing them for the time before. I’m usually angry because I feel my efforts at that moment are being disregarded and I’m not being treated the way I feel like I treat them, with courtesy and respect to the person they are.
Anyway, my birthday is on Mother’s Day this year. I will not be calling the woman that gave birth to me, nor will I be taking her call. I will do something creative with my children, since, without them, there would be no reason for me to celebrate being a mother.
Birthday, schmirthday.
