The Problem with My 28th Birthday

     I turned 28 on Monday. I spent a lovely day with my kids and my darling mother who traveled all the way from civilization to see me and make my birthday special. She brought me sweet gifts she knew I’d love, helped me to celebrate, not feel too lonely, and showered my children with treats, toys and love like only a grandma can. I should just stop writing now, but that’s not my style, and neither is having perfectly enjoyable birthdays. Instead, my birthday is a cautionary tale about high expectations.

     Most of the time I’m pretty content not being the most important person alive,
and that’s good because having children means your specialness takes a distant back seat to everyone around you for a minimum of 18 years. You’re suddenly not special enough to take a 10 minute shower or have phone conversations without saying “can you please wait a minute, mama’s on the phone” 100 times every 3 minutes. Sacrifice is a badge of honor I wear proudly as a mother. But there is one day a year where my amygdala refuses to let me forget how special I’ve been made to believe I am. And this is where my rambling leads us to the heart of the problem with my 28th birthday.

     My mother did an amazing job of convincing me MY BIRTH was the most special event in the history of the world. Regardless of our means, when my birthday came, it seemed the whole universe stopped to rejoice. To me there wasn’t even a contest between my birthday and Christmas (sorry sweet baby Jesus). One year, by surprise, a limo picked me and my friends up on my birthday and drove me through a parade, where I sat on the roof and waved at people like a princess JUST BECAUSE I WAS BORN (as an adult I realize the parade was a lucky coincidence and the limo came from my mom’s work and was featured in the parade as advertising but don’t tell my inner child that - you’d be almost literally raining on her parade). One year we rented out the community pool. Do you know what it’s like to go to a pool every day with 200 insane screaming children, and have the power to force them to stay home and sweat out the heat because you were born 8 years ago? I grew up believing others were privileged to celebrate my existence. So it probably comes as no small surprise to you, dear reader, that my 28th birthday felt sort of disappointing. 

     Entitlement is one of the most poisonous conditions of the mind. Start believing that people, life, or the universe owe you anything and every inevitable let down is tainted with bitterness. Don’t get me wrong, we’re all super special, but life isn’t fair, the world owes us nothing, and no one throws parades for your birthday. A lifetime of conditioning has made it really hard for me to accept the latter. 364 days a year I will fish tiny boogers out of little noses and sing about Old McDonald and his chaotic farm, but on my birthday, damn it, I WANT A PARADE.

Here I am dissatisfied with my Grand Cru and bubbles at my spectacular early-birthday dinner with my husband that I'm too bratty to even mention in this post.

     I was bracing myself for a low key birthday. For starters, I have no friends in a 200 mile radius, so a party was out of the question. To say I rely heavily on my husband for adult interaction here in the city so nice they named it twice is an understatement. This year, much to my chagrin, my husband’s mistress (wine grapes) came to town on my birthday. I plan to write in more detail about what it means to be a harvest widow, but long story short, for my husband harvest means 16-20 hour work days seven days a week for up to 3 months. For me, harvest means an autumn heavy on solo parenting, light on companionship. Although the beginning of harvest is an exciting time in a lot of ways for a lot of people, for me, this year, harvest is the bitch my husband spent my birthday with. 

     My birthday began when my husband accidentally woke the kids getting ready for his anticipated 12 hour workday. He made the coffee that morning, and I got a birthday kiss on his way out the door. Then I proceeded with my regular morning routine of caffeinating and trying to keep the house in one piece and the children alive. My visiting mother made it possible for me to take a long, uninterrupted shower and while I savored the hot water and the caffeine rushed through my veins I pulsated with gratitude for a beautiful life of simple pleasures. Once my children and I were fully clothed we walked with my mother downtown where more coffee was had, I ate basil gelato (weird but so good) in the morning because I could, and I eagerly showed my mom the little town I’ve been so charmed by. We spent an hour in the toy store drinking in the nostalgia of childhood play. We filled a bag with new toys and my soul with bliss as I reveled in the joy of my babies and the richness of a life built around my family. 

You see a beautiful pond, I see an algae infested duck poop mine field.

     After stopping at home for some lunch and a baby nap, we set out to visit the park, and to finally visit the duck pond and little aviary I’ve been raving to my mom about. By the time we waded through the scorching sun to the playground even the kids weren’t that interested in being there. Holden played a little bit out of obligation, and I sat on a bench merrily checking my Facebook birthday messages, then perusing the newsfeed. I came across an article highlighting some statistics about how having a family is great for a man’s career and horrible for a woman’s and instead of feeling grateful about my life I started to get really pissed about living in a world of inequality, drudging up my own negative experiences as a mother in the workplace, and then feeling deeply inadequate. Instead of being a courageous beacon of female competency and strength changing the system from within, I opted to stay at home and push a stroller around town buying lattes. As we walked away from the playground my mom asked if everything was okay, and I tried to describe my exasperation with the state of humanity without sounding like I wasn’t having a fun birthday, but I was beginning to crack. We rushed through the pond experience toward the aviary, dodging piles of duck poop on the way. 

     Logically I think superstition is stupid, but secretly there’s a part of me that can’t help but pay heed to omens. For example, the morning before Holden was conceived, a bird pooped on my shoulder, which is said to be good luck and sure was for me. If you see me standing beneath a bevy of pigeons with my arms held out wide, I’m probably trying to get pregnant. Back to my birthday - as my dark mood collided with an unpleasant dip in my caffeine to blood ratio, I tried valiantly to be feign more interest in the aviary birds than in how sweaty I felt and how unfair life is. Then I heard “Uh… I don’t think birds are supposed to keep their heads under water that long.” At a prolonged glance within the bird “sanctuary” I saw what my mom was referring to. A goose/pheasant bird creature sat on a log, its long beautiful neck hanging limply so that its head disappeared beneath the water. A few steps away its mate sat whimpering soft, tragic coos. My heart broke into a million pieces and then my inner spoiled brat used the pieces to spell out “what a horrible thing to have to look at ON MY BIRTHDAY.”

      Once I took a swig of that nasty birthday entitlement poison I spewed it all over the rest of my day. Poor me, changing a diaper on MY BIRTHDAY. Poor me, running the dishwasher on my birthday. You can imagine what my reaction was when my husband text me that there was no way he’d be home around 6:00 like he originally thought, and that he’d be lucky to be home by 10:00. The thought that I’d have to drive my screaming kids through the drive-thru to pick up my birthday takeout sent me into a whirlpool of self pity. My already exhausted 3 year old, per usual, sensed my despair and converted my vibes of negativity into temper tantrums. Throughout dinner he yelled things like “IT’S NOT YOUR BIRTHDAY, IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” and demanded presents. Clearly I’ll have to work harder to convince him no one is truly special.

I was quite pleased the following morning to devour this for breakfast.

     By bath time I was just hoping I’d get through the day without throwing myself to the floor and wailing that this was the worst birthday ever. My guilt for being a petulant child when I was surrounded by my loving mother and (mostly) sweet, healthy children only served as sprinkles atop my chocolate/vanilla/despair swirl birthday cone. I managed to make it to 9:30 doing a poor job of pretending to be celebratory and when I finally laid down in bed I was just relieved it was all over. Fortunately by the time my poor husband attempted to wake me up to eat the beautiful chocolate carmel tart cake he brought me at 11:00, I was too deeply asleep to smash the cake in his face for abandoning me like I’d fantasized about while dealing with my screaming children hours earlier.

What are the take aways here? 

     Don’t hype your birthday up too much. You’re probably pretty special, but the world stops for no one (except English royalty, and even then only for weddings). 

     Don’t be an entitled brat, because the only person who gets hurt when you don’t get everything you feel entitled to is you. 

     Don’t ever forget to drink your afternoon coffee, especially on busy days, because without caffeine the sky will turn black and a world of torment will close in all around you.

     So a big shout out to everyone who wished me a happy birthday, please know that I had a wonderful first half of my birthday, and that I take full responsibility for spoiling the second half. Now that this piece is as long and self indulgent as my birthday was, we can put it all behind us and go on enjoying life. Cheers to a new year of learning, growing and complaining sardonically every step of the way.