I always get like this around this time of year. It is after the hustling holidays of Thanksgiving-Christmas-New Year trio and this day arrives before I, or anybody else, know it. Just a few short years ago, I dutifully had what’s called a “birth month” and
celebrated drank my birthday the entire month. This time around, I get a forgetful husband and unknowing toddlers. This time around, I also hate birth days I usually love.
The awaited screams meant the world to me because it also meant that the inconspicuous 10 months came to life on the day my children were born. I had no clue what they would look like or even what pronoun one would be. I would meet the rest of my life on their first day. Labor and birth has always been very kind to me and I love the experiences each one afforded me. Actual parenthood is another story.
My birthday is just a day I want to forget I gave birth to other human beings. Is that harsh? Maybe. I want to be me and go and eat Denny’s alone. If the universe can do me a solid and make sure the baby can change all her diapers and catch all her poops. I would really like to put on makeup and my false eyelashes just because it’s my fucking birthday. I would really appreciate it if the toddler did not wake up his sister on purpose. I would like the dishes to run themselves or hell, go all Beauty and The Beast on me and make all the meals for the day. I just want to celebrate by doing absolutely nothing and remembering nobody’s birthday except maybe my mother’s because I came out of her vaj.
Today, I just want to wish myself a happy birthday and no one else.