My birthday is approaching. I’m not generally a megalomaniac, but I do have to admit that my birthday has long been my most favorite day of the year. It’s the day that I looked forward to every year. I don’t yet have a complex about the correlation between my birthday and my age and I am not one of those people who hates my birthday because it brings back unsettling memories from my childhood. In fact, as a child, birthdays were a mix of hooplah and hullabaloo centered around one thing: me. My parents made much muss and fuss over the day that I came out of my mom and I loved it so much I wanted to marry it. And, after I found something {or someone} else to marry, the doting and delight multiplied. Birthdays always meant that I got a special breakfast and dinner, talk to all my favorite people and do things that I like most. It happened but once a year and was always a magical day. I have always been obsessed with my birthday.
But not this year.
Last year, my birthday was a blur. At the time, I was fortunate to get a shower every three days and I would cry at any commercial using the newest version of somewhere over the rainbow. Surely, there are many mothers who will cringe upon hearing that one of my least favorite birthdays was also my first birthday as a mom, but our babe was not the typical cooing, cuddling, sleeping dream. Barrett’s tummy was a rumbling, bubbly mess and so dairy and soy had already made a departure from my diet. I wore expandable pants and a diaper-sized pad every day and I felt exhausted. I’m surely not supposed to admit this as a mom, but I put in a requisition to move my birthday to March 22nd {or to some day in the future that included sleep, a shower and maybe even, makeup} but unfortunately, God decided long ago that February 22 was the day. So, the birthday train came and went without much acknowledgment from me.
So, this year, for the first time, I’m indifferent on my birthday. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled that a) I get to have a birthday b) I have a son {who’s the best} and a husby {who’s the bestest} with whom I get to celebrate and c) that I’m not wearing diaper pads and have sore nipples. But it just seems to have lost some of its luster. It’s as if I transferred my former fervor for festivities as I had great anticipation for Barrett’s first birthday just two weeks ago but am short on enthusiasm for my own day. I think that this indifference stems largely from the fact that ever since I became a mom, I feel like being selfish feels too, well, selfish. It’s as if, suddenly, it feels wrong to put me first. It could also stem from the fact that after a few years of my bday falling on “good” days, this year it’s on a Monday. Or, maybe it’s simply because I’m being lame.
Whatever it is, though, I think I’ll let my mom celebrate the day because let’s be real, she did way more 28 years back than I did. Twenty-Eight… oh me, oh my.
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